content warning: jack abbot x gn!reader. no use of y/n. fluff!!!! reader is referred to as 'bunny' once.
word count: 0.4k.
"so, you hate me?" you ask, straightening up as jack walks right past you in the kitchen. you were bent down to get something from the cabinet beneath the sink — he walked right behind you... and didn't slap your butt.
not even a soft pat.
that obviously means your boyfriend hates you.
because not once since you've been going out, for a good chunk of months now, had this man walked past you and did not slap your ass. every single time. washing the dishes? slap. making dinner? slap. sweeping? slap. drinking water? slap. if you two were simply hanging out on the couch, the moment you stand up, slap. jack is simply obsessed with your ass, and it shows. sometimes even in public — those were obviously less of a slap and more of a gentle pat. like he just needed to put his hands on you, and somehow, it always on your butt.
jack stops mid step, turning around to face you. his handsome, wrinkled face has confused written all over it. "what?"
"you didn't slap my butt," you say, as if it's obvious. "you hate me."
"sweetheart—"
"you don't love me anymore!" you cut him off dramatically, throwing your arm up like a damsel in distress.
jack watches you, trying to figure out if you're serious or not. when he catches that slight tilt of your lips, he huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head. he walks back into the kitchen with that slow gait that makes you weak in the knees. because he knows the effect he has on you.
"i hate you, mhm?" jack says when he's close enough, trapping you between his body and the counter behind you. your heart picks up the pace, but you're not gonna let him throw you off just yet.
you tilt your chin up defiantly, crossing your arms over your chest. "yes, you do—" now, you're the one being cut off. by his lips.
jack grabs your jaw with one of his big hands, bringing you to his lips so he can devour you. his kiss is demanding, his tongue licking the seam of his lips. his other hand trails down your body, down to you hip. he grabs your ass, squeezing the flesh there. you melt against him, all that defiance leaving your body.
the bastard laughs into the kiss when you moan softly at his handling, his other hand going down to grab at your ass, too. he's rough, and you yelp against his lips when jack smacks your ass-cheek. "ouch,"
"you asked for it, bunny," he says, kissing down your neck.
Midday vacation nap/cuddlefuck w jackie in your luxury hotel room!! Escaping the beach heat for a little loving before getting ready for fancy dinner
ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME??????
he knows that the heat is a lot for you and he wants you to be well rested... obviously the perfect solution is a face-to-face cuddlefuck in the hotel, with the ac blasting and him completely tuckering you out <3
this is so perfect me when ill start sobbing me when?????
Husband! Sammy Bryant dealing with his horny drunk wife <3
MDNI 18+
warnings: intox, oral (f receiving), afab, a lot of whining lol, not read over srry <3
You’re whining into his neck, his big rough hands settled on your hips as you shove your face deeper into his freckled skin. He’s still in uniform, having picked you up from the bar after you called him tipsy and giggling and he came and took you home.
“Js’ call in” you whisper into his neck, slipping your skirt down your legs, your sticky panties following. “You know I can’t angel” he grunts lowly, hands squeezing at your bare flesh and his eyes fluttering shut as you kiss his neck.
“Sammy” you whine, falling back onto the bed and crawling up to the pillows as he watches you. You let your legs fall apart slowly, sticky wet pussy glimmering in the dim lighting of your shared home.
Sammy lets out a deep sigh, hand moving down to adjust his stiffening cock in his pants. “Baby.” he says sternly, “this isn’t fair.” He watches as you lower your left hand down, toying with your clit and your pretty wedding ring catching on the light.
“Just want my husband cock, s’ that so bad” you pout, big doe eyes blinking up at him. “You know I gotta get bac..” he trails off, his eyes glazing over as he stumbles towards you a bit. “You don’t want me anymore Sammy? That it?” You whine, finger pumping inside you.
His big hand is moving over his budge in his pants. “You know that ain’t it.” He growls, the walkie on his side beeping a loud crunchy ‘BRYANT’ as he curses. “I really do gotta go angel” he says lowering himself onto his on knees, pulling you to the edge of the bed by your sides.
He spits a couple times on your pussy as you gasp, watching it run down and coat your folds before he leans in and attaches his mouth to you, slurping it back up. He growls loudly into your cunt as you tug on his hair, his walkie still barking his name before he pulls away. “There, that should hold you over till m’ back hm?”
He leans over you, kissing you roughly before pulling back and then kissing you once more sweetly. “I love you, I’ll be back as soon as I get off” he knows you’ll be sleeping by the time he gets home, but that small taste of your cunt is enough to keep him going for a lifetime.
You whine as he pulls away, sleep already prominent in your voice and he chuckles, adjusting his pants one more time before leaving the house and locking the door.
Summary: An attack during an attack leaves Leon injured and increasingly delirious. After extraction, he’s whisked away, and nobody’s fucking telling you what’s going on.
Finally, you get a phone call.
It changes everything.
WC: ~5k
CW: NSFW, like REALLY NSFW, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, Leon is injured, fuck or die, sex pollen, sex venom, shaky safety practices, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, first time (together), friends to lovers, technically coworkers to lovers, handjob, unprotected p in v, creampies, multiple orgasms (Leon), he's a hopeless romantic at heart, happy ending
Notes: MINORS DNI
“You say you saw the suits.”
“Yeah, in passing.”
“You didn’t think they were important?”
“It’s a fucking lab. Labs are rife with hazmat suits. We’ve never had to equip them before.”
“There were warnings posted all over the exit.”
“There were zombies all up on our ass.”
The splattering offspray from Leon’s last-minute shot paints your back like a gory Jackson Pollock. The infected hits the floor, tripping two more.
It would be more helpful if there weren’t about a thousand of them closing in.
You’re running side by side with Leon, shoes eating up the sterile white floors, trying to divine an exit through the branching arteries of the lab. He has to veto a turn into a side hall when more shambling figures lunge forward; he grabs your arm to tug you away with him, but it’s an unnecessary precaution. You’ve already matched his footwork.
He glances behind as you run.
“Where the fuck are they coming from?”
You’d like to fucking know.
“And why are they all runners?”
You’ve dealt with your fair share of speed-boosted infected; limbs windmilling, clawing and careening, all bursting energy and no finesse.
These aren’t blisterheads. They have stamina. They’re keeping up.
You twist and shoot one whose fingers are uncomfortably close to swiping the back of Leon’s shirt. The nearby white paneled wall goes bright, splotchy red.
“Intel’s getting a new one ripped if we make it out of this,” you pant, breath dry and ragged in your throat. Your lungs are burning.
“We’re making it out,” Leon tells you. Conclusive, no room for argument. He dodges left, hand once again grazing your arm to pull you with, but you’re already there, a perfect shadow.
This hall is wider, brightly lit with glass cases set in between the wall panels.
You’ve only got eyes on one thing as you run.
EXIT
It’s a final sprint.
You grit your teeth, breath loud in your ears, arms and legs pumping hard, trying to build a gap that allows for a sudden smack into the double doors, a loss of momentum and reversal of motion to slam the barrier closed.
‘Slam’ turns out to be optimistic. It’s a hydraulic close. Glacially fucking slow.
“Fuck! Force it!”
You almost bash heads with Leon, throwing your combined weight against the doors as the calamitous wall of infected catch up, arms reaching through the diminishing gap, scratching and clawing at you.
With a roar of effort, the doors finally give way under pressure and close with a crunch. An arm, hand, and various fingers fall onto the concrete.
“Bar it! Bar it!” Leon’s braced against both doors, his body a wedge, jarred by the furious thumping from the other side.
There are massive pneumatic rod locks on either side of the door. The control panel is dark.
“There’s no power!”
“You’re armed!”
Oh, right.
BANG T-SHUNK
Smoke curls from the barrel of your gun. The blasted hole in the control panel sparks weakly, fizzes, then goes dark.
Leon pushes away from the secured doors, rubbing at his ear. Your head’s ringing like a struck bell and you’d been back at arm’s length, not parallel with the barrel.
“Say something?”
“Something.”
“Yeah, can’t hear shit.”
"You only look like it.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He’s flipping you off.
You grab it like a pinky promise, linking middle fingers, and he rolls his eyes.
“Alright. Let’s bounce,” you say.
He pulls you back. Urgent, abrupt. It bumps you against him.
“Wait.”
You’re in a greenhouse.
Rows and rows of lush, overgrown plants stretch unfamiliar leaves towards a glass-paneled sky. The walkways between rows are made of industrial metal grating, a stale funk rising from the darkness underneath.
No breeze is stirring the air. The back of your neck starts prickling; your animal brain tugging on your metaphorical hem and pointing.
The plants are rustling lightly.
Leon half-turns his head towards you, keeping his eyes on the jungle ahead.
“What’s the sitrep on the door?”
It’s still thumping against the locks, battered by the relentless undead. You glance at the panel you’d shot, burst and gutted, the wall above it blackened.
“Fucked.”
“Other doors?”
It’s just wall. Wall, and wall, and wall, smooth and inhospitable.
“Negative.”
“How long can you hold your breath?”
“I don’t think that’s the concern.”
You’re playing back the last hallway. White walls broken by glass panels, streaking by as you run. Behind every glass panel, a bright orange suit, thick like leather.
Bite-proof.
“Fuck.”
“So you tried to bypass it underground.”
“So we tried to bypass it underground,” you confirm. You watch the man nod, taking notes. He’s a leftie.
“Good thinking.”
“Yeah, well. Apparently not.”
The metal grating isn’t light. Thankfully, you and Leon aren’t weak.
The daylight sits like oil on top of water, only greasing weakly off of the reflective metal of more walkways below; descending levels disappearing into the dark.
“Oh, good. Can’t see the bottom.”
“Endless possibilities,” Leon says. “Cover me.”
The first level is an eight foot drop. Leon swings his legs into the gap, scoots forward, and eases himself down slowly, like he’s waiting for something to file a violent complaint. When nothing does, he drops onto the walkway, the metal clanging despite his rubber soles.
He shines his flashlight forward.
“Ugh.”
“What?”
“Love what they’ve done with the space.” He pockets the flashlight, reaching up to you. “It’s a charm you have to see in person.”
His hands are firm on your sides, your shirt riding up a little as he supports you down onto the platform with him. He absently fixes your rucked hem as you shine your flashlight into the gloom.
“Ugh,” you agree.
Roots.
Long, white, spidery roots hang from the ceiling in lengthy clumps and bundles, like massive, cobwebby chandeliers.
Leon’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing.
“Hey. Look.”
He steps forward, reaching into the nearest nest of gauzy filaments. He pulls his hand out, fingers curled around a narrow, dark plastic tube.
You come closer with the flashlight.
The dark color is red.
“It’s warm,” Leon adds, horribly.
The tube snakes off into the darkness below. You point your flashlight down and catch a glint off of something flat, circular, and shiny.
Leon’s separating more tubes from the leggy mass of roots. Only the one is red, but the others don’t look any less… organic.
“God. Which way do you think they run?”
He glances at you. “Three guesses.”
“Plants don’t bleed red.”
“Not typically.”
You share a resigned look, then he brushes past you, face set.
You turn to find him making quick work of the stairs down to the lower levels, hand on his gun.
You check your pistol's chamber and follow.
“A line of tanks.”
“Life support tanks, yes. Dozens.”
“Which way were the tubes running?”
“Both ways.”
“So…”
“The tanks were feeding the plants, and the plants were feeding the tanks.”
“Life support, you said. So there were … humans? Inside the tanks?”
“Yeah,” you say, looking away. “Used to be.”
There’s a thick film of slime on the tank, like growing snot. Your flashlight can’t make out anything coherent inside.
Leon shines his flashlight down the row; cylinder after cylinder, standing like a row of human-sized batteries, all mucky with slime and tickled by the trailing ends of roots from the massive bundles overhead.
Somewhere ahead, a steady dripping, echoing. You don’t appreciate the cliche.
“When was the initial outbreak?” Now that you’re on solid ground, your voice seems to suck right into the floor.
“All the lab logs and entries stop around six months ago.”
“So no one’s been down here for half a year.”
“Yeah.”
Leon shares a long look with you, mouth tight. Then, hesitant, he wipes a window through the muck on the nearest tank.
The beam of his flashlight illuminates the chamber. You can see a vague shadow suspended inside, like a bug in rough, raw amber.
He steps back, jaw tight.
“Dare I even ask?”
He shakes his head. “It’ll put you off soup.”
You shine your flashlight upwards; the root balls catch it and glow, high overhead.
“What was so wrong with good ol’ hydroponics?”
“Let’s just get out of here,” Leon says, heading off down the line of tanks.
“Twist my arm.”
“You didn't see it?”
“It was behind one of the tanks. In the dark.”
“You didn't hear it?”
“It was a little noisy at the time,” you say, annoyed.
Third tank from the last, everything goes spectacularly tits up.
Glass shatters outward, slimy and wet as it ricochets off your defensively raised arms. The body in the tank falls forward and swipes for Leon’s legs.
It’s not like the infected you’re used to, desiccated and dry as jerky.
This one is wet. This one is dissolving, skin sloughing from muscle sloughing from bone. Entrails spill from its body cavity, slippery, spreading across the hoary concrete as the disgusting thing writhes for a claim on your partner’s ankle.
Leon stumbles out of reach, gun aiming at the mucky skull. It explodes like a sixpack in a hot car and you’re shouting, ducking behind your arm again—
That’s when the other thing strikes.
Leon shouts in pain and tries to tear free. The pale, rubbery thing keeps hold of his shoulder like an overexcited dog with a rope toy.
“Leon!”
It’s too close to his head and he’s thrashing, you don’t have a clear shot. Something glints in the shadows behind his hip.
The hatchet. He’s already grabbed it.
A roar, a swing, the song of a sharp blade slicing clean through something organic.
The pale thing hits the ground with a sound like a rotting squash, the vine swinging empty into the darkness behind the tanks.
Leon falls to one knee with a grunt, the hatchet clattering onto the concrete.
“Leon! Leon,” you’re touching his back, crouching down with him. He’s breathing hard through his nose, clutching his shoulder. The fabric is darkening under his hand.
“Let me see. Leon.”
You shove his hand clear, unzipping his collar and yanking it aside.
His skin is patterned with circular rows of bleeding dashes. Lots of them.
“What the fuck.”
The pale, rubbery thing lies flaccid on the floor behind Leon. At first glance, it looks like a starfish collapsed on itself.
At second glance, you start to see the teeth, fine and triangular, in diminishing rows like a shark.
Pink with blood.
“Shit. Hey.”
Leon’s still on one knee, head down. You push his hair back, leaving a bloody streak on his skin, and tip his face up. There’s sweat on his forehead.
It takes him a moment to focus on you.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He grunts. His pupils are a little too big, even for the dim lighting, and they’re not reacting right when you pass your flashlight closer.
You’re trying not to panic.
“Can you get up? Can you walk?”
He lets you haul him to his feet but shoves you off when you go to duck under his arm. You don’t take offense; it’s a good sign. He’s steady enough on his own.
“Grab that,” he tells you, voice rough. He’s holding his shoulder again, pointing down at the beheaded plant. You pick it up by the little stem of vine, grab his hatchet, and follow him close, ascending fast while he calls for extraction.
You don’t wait for your debrief to finish writing.
“What did the labs say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What did Medical say?”
“They’re still running tests.”
“What, with a potato? Where's the sense of urgency, here?”
“At last report, Mr. Kennedy was stable,” he says, capping his pen.
“He was half delirious coming off that chopper!”
“They’ve determined he’s in no immediate danger.”
“How can they know if they’re still running fucking tests?”
You get your name in an admonishing tone. You stand up, your chair screeching against the floor.
“I wanna see him.”
“He’s in precautionary isolation.”
“I was exposed to the same bullshit he was. I wanna see him.”
“You weren't bitten.”
“What, you think he’s gonna bite me?”
Your debrief just looks back at you, calm and level, his hands folded prim over the closed folder containing your account of the whole goddamn shit-spackled mission.
“He’s in precautionary isolation,” he repeats.
Your teeth grind, a muscle in your jaw jumping.
“Are we done here?”
“Yes. You are free to go.”
Medical stops you at the door. They aren’t fooled by your purposeful stride, your bored but intent expression. They hook your arm and yank you away like it’s goddamn Looney Tunes.
“We were told you might try that.”
Fucking debrief.
So now you’re sitting at home, dialing the Medical desk every fifteen minutes, certain from the complete non-activity of the past four hours that they’ve filtered your number as spam.
Assholes.
You should go to bed. Medical’s kept you both alive thus far, through hell and high water. Leon’s in good hands. Stable. No immediate danger, they said.
You rotate your phone in your hand, over and over. Upside-down, rightside-up. Staring at nothing.
You call the labs.
Some poor idiot actually picks up.
“I-I-I can’t give you that information,” he stammers, when you demand an update on Leon. On the biting plant. On fucking anything.
“I’m his partner! I was ground zero when it happened!”
“I-I can’t verify that over the phone.”
“Then I’m coming in,” you say, prim. You hang up on more panicked stammering, tossing your phone aside on the couch.
You’ve barely made it to your feet when your phone starts ringing.
Incoming Call
Leonnedy
You stub your toe on the couch in your scramble to pick up.
“Leon! Are you okay?”
Immediately you can tell he’s not.
“I need help,” he says. Croaks.
Cold sweat breaks on your skin.
“Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m… I can’t…” He gasps.
You’re a whirl of activity. You’re grabbing your wallet, your keys, pulling a jacket on over your pajamas. There’s no fucking time to change.
“Leon, where are you.”
“Home.”
“What?” You stop cold in your mad dashing, gripping the phone too hard. “They sent you home like this?”
“They said I could take care of it.”
“Take care of what? They won’t tell me fucking anything, Leon–“
He groans through clenched teeth and oh boy, Medical’s gonna find out just how creative you can be when it comes to revenge. You shove your feet ungracefully into some shoes and grab for the door handle.
“The venom,” Leon’s panting in your ear, and then he gets to the zinger. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”
You feel it like lightning, a surge throughout your entire body. Your visual of his situation, based on the noises he’s making, takes a dramatic turn.
“Leon.”
“It’s been six goddamn hours,” he grits out.
“Jesus christ, can’t you just–”
“I’ve tried,” he says. “I’m just goddamn edging myself.”
“Did you call Medical? There’s gotta be something they can–”
“Fucking useless,” Leon says, confirming your hypothesis. “They told me to hire an escort.”
“What?”
“I’m not— fuck— fucking doing that.”
You thump your forehead against your front door, your grip on the doorknob tight enough to crush.
“Leon, if you… there’s no shame. They’re professio–”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t…” He breaks off, breath hissing through his teeth, and then fails to elaborate.
That’s alright; you’ve got a pressing question.
“Why’d you call me?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You just have to listen to him breathe like this.
Your vivid imagination is a fucking curse.
"I trust you,” he finally tells you. “I know how this… I don’t have… I trust you.”
You’re partners.
No, you’re coworkers. What he’s asking is… can he ask this? What happens to your partnership in the aftermath? Can you go back to–
“Please,” he breathes in your ear, and tops it with your name.
You wrench the door open.
Before you hang up, he gives you the code for the garage door, and fair warning.
You’re still not prepared.
As partners, you’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Usually partial. Usually because you’re bleeding somehow. Always clinical.
This doesn’t feel like the far end of the same spectrum. This feels like a g-force journey into a different dimension.
Leon’s on his couch, head back, knees wide. Taut like a bowstring.
Completely, stark, buck-ass naked.
His shoulder looks like a bisected watermelon, his skin dewy and pink, dotted with the dark little toothmarks from the venomous plant.
His chest is heaving, his hips restless.
His cock is flushed dark, painfully engorged, thick and pulsing against his stomach. There’s a wet smear on his skin; when his cock lifts, straining, it trails a sticky little string of precum.
“Christ,” you rasp, tossing your jacket aside.
He lifts his head and his eyes can barely focus on you. He looks on the verge of passing out, but he reaches out, reaches for you. You shove a bottle of lube out of the way on the couch cushions and take his outstretched hand.
“I’m here. What do you–“
“Touch,” he pants, barely coherent. “Touch me.”
And here you are in the deep end, no time to brace, no time to breathe. You’re touching him, chamois soft skin, hot and unyielding. His hips jerk on a gasp, a groan dragging from somewhere deep within as he lets his head fall back on the couch.
The hot, swooping sensation in your stomach physically bends you, punches your breath out.
You’ve never handled a dick this hard in your entire life.
You’ve maybe never handled a dick this big in your entire life. He’s long and thick, the head flared, cerise and glistening. You pass your thumb over his slit, smearing through the precum, and his stomach tautens as he pushes up into your hand, his breath rushing out hot, hissing back in. He’s desperate.
He breathes your name. His ass keeps flexing with the helpless motion of his hips and his eyes are closed, forehead knotted.
It’s intense concentration. His world narrowed down, only as wide as the circle of your fist.
Six goddamn hours.
You tighten your grip, trail your other hand up the lightly furred inside of his thigh, teasing his balls before stacking your fists and starting to pump him in a steady rhythm that answers the flex of his body.
His hand lands on your thigh, searing, his fingertips firm on your flesh and pulling. Your knee presses tighter against his leg.
He’s just grappling for a hold on something, for an anchor. His other hand is doing the same thing to the arm of the couch. You just hope he doesn’t move his hand any further to the left on you or he’s gonna find you a little too slippery to hold onto.
Fuck, you’re only goddamn human.
You jerk him faster, his hips starting to meet you in earnest, his body rolling as he chases his disobliging release.
And why couldn’t he get there himself?
What if… what if you can’t get him there, either? You don’t know anything about the venom, they’re still running tests. Maybe this is the result. Maybe he’s just… stuck like this, heightening, exacerbating, until he, what, pops?
What a fucking epitaph that would be.
No, you’re not scripting headstones. That’s not happening.
You start to twist on the upstroke, a flick of the wrist, and Leon moans loud.
“That’s it. Come on, Leon.”
His balls are tightening, drawing up, his forehead beaded with sweat, his mouth open. He’s right on the edge.
“Look at me.”
He opens his eyes, glassy as they are. You make sure he can see you, and then you bend low.
His skin is velvety soft around the firm rounds of his balls. You fit your lips to one of the shapes, touch your tongue to it, tasting the salt of him.
He cries out, thick ropes of cum hitting his chest, his stomach, spurting and spilling down his shaft, smeared by your hand as you milk him through it, relieved.
You can’t stop your breathy laugh, almost lost under his aereous groans. He just keeps going.
“A little pent up?”
He doesn’t quip back. The situation is dire.
His dick gives one last pulse, the final beads of his release dribbling down the head of his cock. You rub it away with your thumb.
There’s a very noticeable issue.
He’s still incredibly hard.
When you meet his eyes, they’re a little clearer. He’s still sunset pink and breathing hard – messy, now, too – but he can track your face better.
“Do you feel any different?”
“Fuck. Barely.”
"What if you're stuck like this?"
“Don't say that," he says. You’re still stroking him, slow, like an afterthought. He drags his hands through his damp hair, hissing when it stretches the scabs on his chewed shoulder.
"It was venom, do you need some sort of antivenom?"
He doesn’t appear to be listening. His hands grip the back of the couch, his hips rolling, cock pushing through your sticky fist.
You grab his hips and force them down.
“Leon.”
He bucks hard against you, bratty.
"You think I know?”
“Don’t give me an attitude.”
“Don’t fuckin tease me,” he snaps, unwisely.
You move fast.
A whump, a gasp, the silence of breath caught in the shadow of a predator.
His breath fans out over your face; slow, tremulous.
“I’m doing you a favor,” you remind him, low, your face inches from his. “I could just leave.”
He’s not moving, trapped under you.
You’re straddling him, your fist tight at the base of his cock.
“What do you say?”
“Fuck.”
“Leon.”
“I love you.”
It rattles you like a gunshot, strikes you and spreads.
It takes your advantage, crumples it up, and throws it in a trash compactor. And then it lights that trash compactor on fire.
“That’s not fair,” you breathe.
“Sorry,” he whispers, and kisses you.
He’s upgraded your permissions. You kiss him back, heated, and let go of your leash.
He breaks from your mouth to gasp when you sit on his hips, his hands catching your waist and gripping.
“Shit.”
“So we’ve learned that I’m not a monk,” you say, a verbal roll of the eyes.
It’s not just a few tepid inches of water in your basement. At this point, your flood’s halfway up the damn walls.
He rocks his hips, rubbing himself against the soaked fabric of your pajama shorts. You keen and pick up the motion on your own.
God, you’re aching.
“You should have said something,” he says, breathless.
“That wasn’t on the invitation.”
“Aren’t you a saint.”
“Yeah. Because when you said ‘I trust you’, I heard ‘take advantage of my compromising situation’.”
“Fair,” he says, then pulls you down to speak in your ear, his scruff a ticklish rasp against your skin. “Fuck me.”
Well don’t you make the perfect pair. He’s hard as granite and you’re wet enough to sink a dinghy.
Taking off your clothes is too much fucking bother. You just shove the wet fabric to the side.
He doesn't watch where you’re taking his cock into your body, the hot, hard length of him sliding in tight past your pussy lips.
He’s watching your face. You don’t know it until you’ve got him in to the hilt, your mouth falling open on a sigh, your forehead smoothing out as you gyrate your hips, a delicious little circle, fully seated on his lap.
"Oh my god, Leon."
He comes.
Your name is somewhere in the long groan sieved through his clenched teeth before his mouth drops open, diced breaths tumbling free as he pulses inside of you, so deep, so hot and thick.
He’s still looking directly at you.
You watch his eyes clear just a little more; sharpening, focusing. Smoke becoming a mist.
“Can I tease you about premature ejaculation.”
“No.” He starts unbuttoning your pajama top. The fabric is wrinkled at your sides where he’d been gripping, almost hard enough to bruise.
“Why, because you’re still hard?” He is, but it’s different. You couldn’t bend steel around him anymore.
“Yeah,” he says simply, and grips your open collar, pulling you down into a kiss.
You arch your back, easing him to just the tip, bottoming him out again, cycling his affected breath through your own lungs. He runs his hands down your chest, grazing your nipples, his tongue reaching into your mouth to taste your sigh.
His hips press up into you, lifting you, a gentle swell. You ride it; start to rock your hips.
The fabric of your shirt whispers down your arms, chased by the skim of Leon’s palms. Goosebumps raise on your skin.
You brace your arms on the back of the couch, riding him faster. He trails his lips down the column of your neck, his scruff a pleasant scratch, his humid breaths printing your skin.
He runs the fan of his fingers over your nipples.
“Leon.”
“Lean back,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing your shoulder. “Let me see you.”
You sit back on his hips, brushing your hands over the caps of his knees. He scratches lightly down the flex of your thighs as you start slapping down on him harder, dropping your head back, gasping.
“Fuck, gorgeous, just like that.”
“God, Leon.”
Your thighs are burning. He starts meeting you, hips snapping, and you look down.
It almost does you in.
Those broad shoulders, that flushed chest. Muscles rolling and bunching under his glistening skin. Hair sticking to his forehead, wet pink lips, blown eyes hooded, watching you, too.
His hands fall to your hips and he growls, fingers bunching in your pajama shorts. Feral. Like he’s going to tear them.
He hooks his arm around your back and surges up, laying you out on the sofa. You whine when he slips out of you, but he’s lifting your hips to yank your shorts and panties down, surprisingly coordinated for the way he’s wound up.
A small part of you expects them to hit the floor with a wet slap. The rest of you is reaching for Leon, impatient, empty.
He brings your knee up, hooks your leg around his hip and pushes back in, one long thrust, his breath a humid narration. You keen, head falling back against the cushions, feeling his lips at your jaw.
He digs his arms under your shoulders, his body rocking you, fluid motions pushing and pulling as he fucks you slow, deep. You grip his back, obsessed with the animal flex of his body.
You can feel every inch of him, stroking your walls. In, out, a steady tide. You arch your back, your stomach pressing to the rippling heat of his abs.
He’s still sticky. You don’t fucking care.
“Score’s two to zero,” he tells you, breath hot against your cheek. “You gonna catch up?”
“I’m not the medical concern.”
He brings your other leg up onto his hip, adjusting. Seeking.
He finds it. You groan loud, raw, and feel him smile against your neck.
“There you are.”
Your jaw hinges open, your vision glazing over as he rubs the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves inside you. He snaps his hips, jolting a gasp out of you, then goes right back to massaging your g-spot.
“You’re not real,” you pant. He nips your skin, sharp.
“River in Egypt, sweetheart.”
You dig your heels into his glutes, pressing in like spurs, urging him faster.
“Come on, cowboy– ah!”
He pushes up onto his hands, skin slapping loud as he starts pounding into you hard and fast. You were already tightening, coil building, and he’s hit your fucking warp drive.
“Fuck, fuck, like that, Leon!”
“Shit, you better hurry,” he says through gritted teeth. His hips are stuttering, rhythm starting to fall apart.
“I told you–“
His thumb circles your clit, just one rotation, and that’s it. The bastard’s got you. Screaming, even.
You come apart beneath him, your foundation shaking, walls clenching around him, wracked by seismic waves. He gasps your name, watching you climax on his dick, then slams in deep and comes with a long, stuttering groan.
The third time, it seems, is the charm.
When his phone starts ringing, you don’t hear it at first. His head is blocking your nearest ear.
“Leon.”
“Mm.”
“Your phone.”
“Mmph.”
You shift like you’re going to try to reach for it yourself, but he’s beautifully heavy on top of you, so you don’t try very hard.
You nuzzle your face into his hair and bring your arms around him instead, closing your eyes. He hums, content.
The ringtone stops, bending to your private moment.
Five seconds later, it starts up again.
“Fuck.”
You grouse when Leon shifts up, but his reach is longer than yours and he doesn’t go far.
“Huh. Medical,” he says.
“Oh,” you say, with mock optimism.
He hits answer, settling back on top of you. You run your hand up and down his back, petting him.
“Kennedy.”
He doesn’t have his volume turned up very high. You get vague shapes of words, spoken quickly, and then Leon’s short responses, felt as much as heard, his voice thrumming through you.
“Yeah. … No. … Don’t need it. … I know. … I know. … No, I’m fine. … Sure. Bye.”
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, his phone clattering onto the coffee table. “Antivenom’s ready.”
You start giggling.
“They want me in for reassessment in the morning.”
It turns into laughter, smothered into his shoulder, and he rolls into the couch crease so he can look at you.
“What?”
“All their overtime hours,” you say. “No match for your partner’s Magical Healing Vagina.”
He laughs, a real one, his hand pulling at your hip to twist you towards him, pressing you against his body. You’re both a fucking mess, and the couch might be a write-off.
It was an emergency.
“Should get you certified,” he says. You make a skeptical noise.
“There’d be a demand.”
His arm tightens around you, minuscule. Almost imperceptible. Might’ve been completely imperceptible, if his arms weren’t so big.
“Mm. We’re sticking to best-kept-secret.”
“How selfish.”
He nuzzles your mouth with his, sharing breath.
“Yeah.”
“Hey,” you mention, to his invading tongue. He retreats and lets you speak. "Did you mean what you said, or was it just self-defense?"
"What I said?"
"Don't be obtuse.”
He brushes his lips against yours, just a snag of soft, moist skin.
"I've never lied to you," he says.
"There's a first time for everything," you say. "You're skirting the question."
He brushes your hair back, studying your face. Content to take forever, it seems.
"If it helps," you say, "I can put you back under duress."
You slide your hand to the front of his hip, laughing when he flinches away.
"Ass," he says, and rolls you onto your back again, dipping to kiss you.
"Yeah. I love you," he says, and maybe it's a little gruff. "And isn't that just a shitload of complications."
"A metric fuckton," you agree, stroking his cheek. His stubble rasps against your fingertips.
His eyes are completely clear, gaze steady looking back at you.
“But maybe it helps that I love you, too,” you murmur.
It's not a kiss this gets you. He's been dishing out all manner of kisses tonight, their significance has shifted. No.
Instead, he nuzzles his face against your neck, wraps his arms around you, and holds you. Holds you like he intends to for a very long time, like you're the only thing that matters, like your beating hearts need to carry out a close and personal conversation.
Good. They can work out the details. You're just gonna lay here and pet the hair of the man you trust most – the man you can finally admit that you love – glowingly content in his arms.
On AO3
Y'all mind if I just give our man a bad good time real quick
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 🩷
☼︎ 1.5 k celebration fic for... sammy bryant ☼︎ based on these asks ☼︎
summary ☼︎ after getting cheated on and treated as if he was terrible in bed, your boyfriend sammy has no idea just how good he always makes you feel. how do you remedy that? by having him tell you how good he is while you ride him of course!
cw ☼︎ afab!reader, talks of insecurities/infidelity, established relationship, reassurance af! dry humping for like a second, kissing :3, reverse cowgirl, unprotected p in v, creampie heals all
wc ☼︎ 1.2 k
the first time you and sammy had sex, you thought him asking you "that feel good?" or "is this okay?" repeatedly was just him learning your body. but at three months into the relationship and he's still acting surprised you even want to be intimate with him, you know it's more than that.
it was the same cycle of little things here and there that had you realize sammy was unaware of how good to you he was. it ranged from sending him a dirty text or picture while he was gone only to be met with a response like "you know you sent that to me right?", to trying to get him undressed and in your pants the second he got home just for him to scrunch his face up and say "you don't have to do that for me."
some nights, you even thought you were the problem. because every time you tried to tell him you felt needy for him, he always double and triple checked if you actually wanted to. your confusion came to a head after dinner on his couch one night.
you'd wanted him inside you since the second he got home, but as always, he looked at you like you had four heads when you tried to make a move. so you waited until after dinner and halfway through the movie he let you pick out. you lean over to start kissing his neck and you hear his breath hitch when you sling a leg over his waist to straddle him. "missed you today sammy.." you hum as you reach his lips while trailing your fingers down his soft belly to his pants zipper.
"are you sure you want to?" is what he murmurs when you tug at the metal tab. you huff, pulling back to look at him. "do you.. not want me or something sammy?" his hazel eyes look cartoonish the way they bulge outwards. "w-what? of course i do."
you play with the buttons on his shirt as you whisper, "then why are you always acting surprised when i want to be with you?" his pudgy cheeks redden instantly, a hand carding through his curls as he looks anywhere but you. "cause it is surprising for me. i guess." when your face scrunches in confusion he rubs the back of his neck as he continues. "my ex she uh, she cheated on me. and i- i think its because of y'know.. her not being satisfied with my… abilities."
the frown takes over your face instantly, heart sinking at the fact that his insecurities come from a woman who wasn't even faithful to him. you think for a second, the last few months becoming clearer in your mind. "sammy… you know that i think you're really good at sex right?"
"baby, you don't have'ta lie-" "i'm not lying! i swear, sammy. you're the only guy who's ever made me finish." he blinks up at you, hands tightening on your hips as you rock once on top of him. "i- i am?" you nod sweetly, not being able to help grinding down on him as you feel him fully harden beneath you. a small groan slips out of both of you at the movement.
"mhm.. you make me feel so good sammy. only you" his lips part at your admission before he cradles your face in his chubby hands to pull you down to kiss him. by the time your tongue slips into his mouth you're desperate, rocking back and forth and whining on top of him.
a surge of confidence rushes though your boyfriend as he whispers against your lips, "w-want me to make you feel good right now?" you don't try to fight of your soft moan of anticipation, which causes sammy to buck his hips up involuntarily as you nod.
you both quickly stand up and all clothes are discarded in between needy kisses before settling back onto the couch. you stop him before he can roll you into missionary, his go to position, and you pray that you've reassured him enough that he'll let you try something new.
you scoot around until you're hovering upright on his lap as you face away from him. you glance over your shoulder and bite your lip when you see his eyes glued to your ass. "this okay sammy?" his enthusiastic nod has you giggle, which is quickly cut off by a moan as he guides you to sink down onto his cock.
"jesus- fuck- you feel so good like this baby." sammy babbles already as you start to ride him in reverse cowgirl for the first time. you're crying out his name as he stretches you until you feel him in your throat.
even though you're not face to face, the new position lets you lean back against his soft chest and easily turn your head to kiss him. it's a sloppy kiss that has your hips faltering when he starts grinding upwards to meet each of your bounces. "oh god- so big sammy ooohh god-!" you yelp when he reaches around to rub your clit just how you taught him to, which you reward with a "just like that- mhm-! so good sammy."
sammy starts to whine into your mouth when you clench around him. "tell me that you're making me feel good. say it sammy." he hesitates for a second before you bend down and gently cup his balls that sit just below where he's touching your clit. he chokes out a groan before nodding in agreement. "im makin' you feel good baby- makin' you f-feel so good."
you're tugging on his bottom lip with your teeth as you whimper, "so good sammy- best anyone's ever made me feel." he speeds up his thrusts, his thick tip hitting the sensitive spot inside you relentlessly. he breaks your kiss to stick two of the chubby fingers from his free hand in your mouth, humming in satisfaction at you when you suck fervently and look back at him with glossy eyes.
he releases them with a *pop* and brings them to pinch one of your nipples and your orgasm approaches you like the inevitable drop off at a cliff. you feel him puff out his chest a bit against your back. and when he grunts, "yea.. yea- i'm the best you've ever had- hnng - f-fucking this tight pussy better than anyone else has, r-right?", you're a goner. you spasm around him, reaching forward to grab at his knees when your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure and you free fall with a shaky moan.
and sammy's right behind you, muttering a few "so good baby, fuck- best ive ever felt." and "gonna fill you up jus how you like it- gonna be so full a'me. only me." the next second your insides are flooded with warmth as he whimpers your name. you shiver at his come filling you to the brim, sending lovely aftershock waves through your body.
you sag back against his chest with a sigh, sammy wraps his strong arms around you, kissing your neck softly. you nuzzle your cheek to the top of his head where is curls lay a little sweaty now. you hold his hand in yours as you smile. "told you you were good at that."
You’ll be in the office, talking to him about this article or that, and the entire time he's just remembering the way you felt under him last night, how your eyes rolled back, how your nails scratched his shoulder blades raw.
His eyes move to your lips, and he can almost hear how you'd moaned his name, the way your labored breath had fanned right into his ear, and the way you’d gasped as he angled his hips so his cock pressed against your g-spot.
Your voice becomes background noise as he remembers how good you'd felt around him. Your warm, tight walls wet as they squeezed his cock, sucking him in, trying to keep him deep in you. And the sounds of it. The wet, obscene squelching combined with the rhythmic slapping of his hips meeting yours...
He's hard before he knows it.
“Clark, are you listening to me?”
Your voice snaps him back to the present moment, back to the bullpen, back to you with your arms crossed and a frown between your eyebrows.
He turns red when he realizes he'd zoned out. “Uh,” he says stupidly, blinking at you. “Sorry. Just...”
“You’re not paying attention,” you accuse, pouting.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, cheeks turning pink. “I just…it’s —” hard. No, let’s not use that word. “— it’s difficult for me to pay attention sometimes. My mind just sort of…goes away.”
“Away where?” you ask, the furrow between your eyebrows deepening.
Clark exhales thickly and glances around to make sure no one is close enough to hear what he’s about to say. “I just can’t stop thinking about…last night.”
He hears the tiny hitch in your breath. “You - you’re really thinking about us having sex right now? I’m talking about something extremely important to my career and you’re just ignoring me, thinking about —?”
Clark gently grabs your upper arms and pulls you a little closer to calm you. “Baby, baby. I’m not ignoring you. It’s not that I’m ignoring you. You just look so beautiful when you’re inspired and determined, and it’s…well, I am just a man.”
You huff, arms still tightly crossed over your chest. “You’re not just a man,” you mumble.
“I am just a man with needs and desires,” he insists. “I’m just Clark Kent in love with you. And everything about you…And, yes, that includes your perfect body.”
That earns him a little reluctant smile from you that you try to hide. “Clark.” Your voice is quiet and firm, an obvious warning, but he can tell he’s getting to you.
“It’s not my fault you’re gorgeous,” he says lowly, leaning a little closer, the warm desire in his lower abdomen starting to build. “Not my fault you have such a beautiful face, and a perfect shape, and the sweetest pussy,” he whispers into your ear.
He feels you shiver and God, now he has to drag you into the office bathroom to fuck you if he wants to be able to focus for the rest of the day.
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
Clark Kent masterlist
---
𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
oh to cook for jack in a teensy pair of shorts and a tank top. hair in a claw clip and jewelry clinking as you flit across the kitchen.
he's perched on his favorite stool, one leg sticking out, thighs spread. just watching. there's something very carnal that possesses him when his beautiful girl cooks for him.
it's one thing to come home from work to find a covered glass plate filled with his favorites; bacon and three sunny-side up eggs. but it's another thing entirely to see you making it, humming and tapping your nails against the granite countertop he installed for you last month and waiting for his food to be perfection.
it has him chubbing up in his cargos, a soft whistle leaving his lips to grab your attention. turning to face him in interest, and he's just squinting his eyes and smirking, motioning you over with a crook of his pointer finger, "c'mere."
holding your hips as you stand in between his legs, your hands perched on his broad shoulders as you smile. his broad palms dragging from your hips, to the sides of your ass, to the soft fullness of it. fingers spreading, your plump cotton shorts divoting in between each of his thick fingers. he's smiling up at you, that cocky jack abbot look that always gets him what he wants... or into trouble with the right girl.
"smells so good, 'm starving" as he nuzzles into your chest, stubble prickling through the thin fabric of your tank. and suddenly you don't know if he means the food or you.
Pope Cody reassures himself that you love him in a way that works for him. wc 800+
You have been dating Pope for a few months, almost half a year now actually. Yet, Pope still struggles to believe the absolute fact that such a gorgeous and amazing girl loves him with all her heart and soul.
He can't really figure out what you see in him, no matter how many times you've told and shown how much you love him—he is still unconvinced that he's worthy of your heart.
But somehow, Pope has found a way to reassure himself that you do.
It just came up out of the blue when he's sitting up on your shared bed, his hands wrapped on the sides of your waist, guiding your body to swallow every inch of his cock in your pussy.
You're in absolute bliss, bouncing on his hard length, the stress from your workplace and the fact that you're pent-up both fueling your thighs and legs to keep going.
"Fuuuuck, Andrew," you whine, your nails digging on his shoulders, holding onto him for your dear life as you lose yourself on his girthy length that never fails to give you the best orgasms.
No matter how many times Andrew has seen you like this, he can never get enough of it. He fucking loves watching you all dazed and fucked out of your mind as you practically take out your work frustrations on his cock.
You slow down your pace once you start getting tired of bouncing. You start to grind on his lap, rubbing your clit on his pelvis with juuust the right pressure and speed.
"Feel good, baby? You needed this after a hard day at work, didn't you?" Andrew coos, detaching his hand from your waist to cup your cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb on your soft skin.
You whine and nod, unable to talk coherently from how full you are. You press your tits on his hard chest, desperate to feel his warm skin on yours.
Andrew curses under his breath when your cunt suddenly constricts his dick. He knows your body so well, that only meant that you're getting pretty close.
"You love me right?" he asks gruffly, his eyes now fixed on your fucked out face.
"Mhmm… of course I do," you manage to reply out of your hazy state.
This is probably the first time you hear him ask that, so of course you're more than happy to tell him you do so.
"If you love me, then you'll cum for me right baby?"
You focus your eyes on him, catching the glint in his eye. Before you can even reply, he tightens his grip on your waist, and his other hand now on your hips as he starts to pound you from below.
A startled gasp escapes your lips, surprised by the sudden aggression of your boyfriend's hips. But you're not complaining.
"Come on, I need to know if you really love me," he says softly, almost pleading, but his thrusts are menacingly relentless.
"But I do love you," you pout. Your mind is all fuzzy as you cradle his face between your soft hands. He's so adorable with his flushed cheeks and and parted lips, his heavy breathing matching yours.
"I'll only believe you do when you cum," he murmurs.
"Andy—"
Pope cuts you off with a sharp thrust.
"Cum for me if you love me, sweetheart," he repeats, kissing your cheek as he continues to ram inside you.
Pope really needs to see it, to feel it. He's just as desperate to see if you really love him as much as he wants you to cum on his cock. He needs to feel from your pussy how much of you is his, and how much of you loves the entirety of him.
"Fuck baby, I'm really close—" you whimper, your legs now feel like jelly as you feel yourself getting closer and closer.
"I need to know if my girl loves me," he breathes against your cheek.
It didn't take you too long to cum, your gummy walls clenching around his cock as you whimper his name into his neck, biting it to ground yourself.
Pope hisses, but lets you bite into him as it grounds him too, relishing the feeling of your teeth sinking in his skin while also helping him not lose his mind as your pussy pulses around him.
Once you ride out your high, Pope holds the side of your neck to make you look at him, placing his lips on yours and kissing you gently, something he never forgets to do after making you cum.
"You okay?" he asks against your lips.
You nod, "Yeah."
"I love you."
"I love you too, Andrew," you reply so sweetly and naturally.
He grins at your response, as if your words ignited something in him. He holds your waist tightly as he lays you down on the bed, flipping your position with his cock still inside of you.
He is now hovering you, his big arms on the sides of your head, looking down at you with eyes that already tells you he's not done with you yet.
"Oh baby, you have to show me again and again if you really do."
———————
a/n: mhmm yes i miss pope! also i wanna get better at writing smut so expect me publishing blurbs from time to time xd
usually, he'd wake up at six on the dot, but that's before. now, it's maybe a quarter past seven when he shoves at you again, gentle. he'd be stressed if it was anything else, but your touch, your presence is enough to distract him. your eyes are still closed, and you swing a leg over his again—his hand comes up instantly, thumb smoothing over the skin just by the hem of your sleep shorts—and you drag your mouth down his neck.
"baby," he groans, and you sigh into his skin, it's too early. he resorts to pleading. "i need to get up, i'm sorry, i love you—"
"if you really loved me, you'd stay in bed with me," you grumble, shifting your leg so his fingers slip under the fabric. tempting. he wants to take the bait, he almost does—and then he slides your leg off, slips out from where your head is on his chest (there's a sticky patch right across his pecs where you drooled in your sleep; for someone who moves around a lot at night you sure do attach yourself to him securely) and pats you once on the shoulder like a work colleague before he sits up on the edge of the bed, back to you. you almost start crying before the broad expanse of his (clothed, unfortunately) back shifts your attention from loss of boyfriend to need to bite, yum.
when he stands up, stretching, the joints of his back crack like mini gunshots. you roll over and swat his ass, and he yelps at the contact, the sound tumbling out unbidden before he can stop it. you snicker, slightly more awake than before, and he turns around to glare down at you before it melts into something softer, more besotted. gorgeous, he murmurs. you don't know what he's seeing in you right now, messy and sleep-deprived, but you won't question it. not when he looks at you like that.
dex tugs off his shirt, grimacing as it separates slowly from his skin, and stumbles into the bathroom, still rubbing at his eyes. you take the loss and follow him, zoning out against the door frame as he takes care of his business, before sitting down on the closed toilet seat. from here, you get a remarkable view of both his back and front, all of his rippling muscle as he brushes his teeth and shaves. you brush yours too, if only so that you can scam a quick make out from him. he kisses you hungrily, hands grabbing at your hips, breath hitching when you drag your nails down his abs. he tastes too much like mint and not enough like him but you're too far gone to care. this time, he's the one trying to keep you a moment longer, chasing your lips and giving you the best puppy eyes he can muster when his eyes are glazed over and his lips are all pink and swollen. and then he pretends that none of this phased him and goes on his merry way like you didn't just readjust the axis of his world with your hands alone.
breakfast is much of the same, stealing kisses from him where he stands at the stove between sips of coffee while he complains about you not allowing him to focus completely on the eggs. you watch him fondly; he's such a good househusband when he's not out killing people. but no one's perfect, right?
halfway through his workout, you finally win him over; he abandons all pretenses and lets you kiss him silly right there on the floor, acting like this isn't what he's been waiting for the whole time.
for those of you concerned about my disappearance: it's really hard to write fanfiction because i'm watching criminal minds rn (started ~10 days ago?) and im on s3 and spencer reid makes my 🅱️enis hard so i can't think of much else. with that being said, requests are still open, reblogs are welcome, etc! 624 words iloveyoudex
★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ MDNI fem reader, p in v, praise kink / soft dom dynamics, size kink, pet names (baby, good girl, perfect girl, etc), dacryphilia
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
Jack keeps you wrapped in cotton, even while he’s buried to the hilt.
One broad palm stays splayed between your shoulder blades, a promise that he has you, always has you, while the other wanders, taming fly-aways behind your ear, thumb sweeping the tears that shimmer there before they can cool.
“Easy, angel,” he murmurs, voice steeped in amber nectar. “I know she’s full. Just breathe for me.”
You do your best, but every lungful drags you further down his length, your body desperate for the heavy fill it’s already trembling to accommodate. A needy whimper slips out, fists knotting the sheets, and he soothes you with a gentle kiss against your smile line.
“That’s it,” he praises, hips rocking in a rich, molasses-slow circle that lets you savor every thick inch. “Such a good girl, taking it all — see how beautifully you fit me?”
Tiny wildfires flower through you everywhere at once, heating your cheeks, spilling down your throat, settling low in your belly where desire winds itself tight and shining.
Embarrassment flickers its wings right alongside it, because he’s cooing at you the same way he coaxes patients through vaccinations: gentle, forbearing, inexorable.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, like there exists a universe where you would ask him to stop.
His hand glides the length of your back, fingers pausing in the dip where your spine meets sacrum.
Too much is exactly how you’d describe the feeling of his cock dragging across that spot that makes your vision strobe starbusting colors, but the tenderness in his voice knots something unsteady in your body.
You manage a breathy, “please, don’t stop.”
A contented rumble answers you, and he plants a feather-light kiss on your forehead, right where he’d lay cool fingers to check your temperature.
He resumes that same rhythm. Slow drive in, lingering grind, languid pull out that leaves you aching for the return. The headboard knocks a soft counterpoint, each tap punctuated by his gentle commentary.
“Doing so well,” he croons when your elbows buckle, gathering you up with one flush tug to his chest. “Hold on to me, there you go, honey.”
Jack angles your leg higher, opening you wider for him, and the change steals air from your lungs in one shattered sound.
“Shh,” he hushes, half-smile curving, proud and adoring all at once. “I know. Feels big, doesn’t it? Let me make it better.”
His fingers dip to your clit, and your gasp dissolves into his name. “Jack — s’good.”
The room narrows to the glide of his thumb and the steady ballast of his body.
He kisses the salt at your hairline, murmuring, “Same here, baby. My perfect girl. Let me handle the rest, yeah?”
MARIA NOTE if being babied this hard during sex is wrong, i refuse to be right <3
I KNOW SHE’S FULL…..HOLD ON TO ME…….FEELS BIG DOESNT IT… LET ME MAKE IT BETTER……MY PERFECT GIRL…. LET ME HANDLE THE REST…. maria….. you have outdone yourself…..
pairing: Jack Abbot x surgical resident!reader
summary: your work’s been leaving you exhausted, but you’re struggling to fall asleep, you barely can relax. Javadi recommends you an audio erotica app. and it does help you unwind. until you realize that the orgasmic raspy voice in your headphones belongs to one of your attendings — none other than Jack Abbot.
warnings: implied age gap (that you can ignore); mutual pining, Jack isn’t that good at flirting when he catches feelings. he compensates for it with his other talents 😏 smut {dirty talk, masturbation, praise kink, teasing, fingering (with two hands, idk if that’s a thing?), piv, aftercare}; Park is an unintentional wingman, Javadi is the bestest of friends / words: 13K / author’s note: this was suuuper unplanned, I wrote the whole thing in a couple of days. is the smut too detailed? maybe. idc ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST
Late in the evening, the cafeteria makes for a perfect place for naps.
With day and night shifts overlapping, everyone’s busy with the paperwork and greetings, and that’s when you prefer to slip away. You aren’t alone at this uncommon hiding spot — Santos already dozed off at a table further off, earbuds in, hood up. She can sleep anywhere and anytime. But you aren’t that lucky.
You spent ten minutes genuinely trying — deep breaths, and meditation, and counting sheep. Now you’re just sulking, helpless against your permanent exhaustion. You catch the footsteps first — quick, quiet, a woman on a mission. The door creaks just a little when it opens.
Closes.
You know the quiet won’t last long.
“I can feel you staring. You’d suck as a spy,” you say, grudgingly opening one eye to see Javadi leaning on the fridge door.
She shakes her head — half disapproval, half concern. “You know, each time I see you here, I’m not sure if you’re asleep or dead.”
“And they let you talk to suicidal people like that? Maybe I plan on walking out of the nearest window.”
“You won’t make it that far,” she chuckles and hands it to you — her peace offering: a frozen Butter Pecan Swirl, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with crushed nuts. It’s like an orgasm in a cup (a huge one), which you are happy to accept.
Javadi sits right next to you, concern still very present in her deer-like dark eyes. “I think even the patients on a psych hold look better than you do.”
“Wow, that comparison really cheered me up. You should be thankful, by the way,” you’re savouring the icy, jarringly sweet drink. “If I didn’t look like death, you’d still be dreaming about getting into surgical residency. My eyebags changed the course of your life. You’re welcome.”
“I am forever in your debt. I’ll pay it off with coffee,” she smiles and leans back on the wall, stretching her legs out — black scrubs pants, grey sneakers, a sigh of relief.
And you think — suddenly and stupidly, because that’s how your brain’s now wired — of that one time Jack brought you the same drink. Sat with you on this same spot. Looked at you with his eyes crinkled at the corners, his usual smirk turned into a softer smile. You don’t even remember what he talked about, but the feeling stayed: of just how calm his presence made you. How comforting it was.
For a good minute, your coffee loses taste.
You blink. Take another sip. Look up — and see him walking through the door. And then it feels like you’re losing it in general. You pinch yourself. He doesn’t disappear.
“Long time no see,” Jack says, very much real. Casual. He goes to look for something in the fridge, a crumb of time for you to get yourself together. Then he looks back at you. “Tough shift?”
Tough week. Or month. Actually, life’s been pretty tough since you stopped working by his side. But you remind yourself that it was your decision.
“Bearable,” you say, pretending to take interest in the thick swirls of syrup on the inside of your cup. Hoping he’d take a hint. And yet, despite him being good at many things, Jack is perpetually bad at leaving you alone.
You left him first. You thought he’d hate you.
Instead, you hear his voice tinged with warmth:
“Didn’t you just patch up the guy with a ruptured aorta? That was badass.”
His compliment feels like a glass of water, and you’ve been parched with thirst.
“Yeah,” you meet his gaze, because you’ve missed him terribly. He’s looking at you like he hoped you would. And you can’t help the smile. “I guess it was.”
He doesn’t stop there. He comes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest — unreasonably, sinfully buff arms — and stares straight at you:
“Remind me where’d you learned that clamping trick?”
He’s being smug now, and you have missed this too. Slowly, the room is narrowing to the small space he takes. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I might have more tricks up my sleeve. Can teach you somethin' else.”
He holds your gaze. Pins you to the spot with his. And just as always, he makes you feel like no one in the world exists except you two —
But you aren’t really alone.
You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. No doubt, it’s Javadi wishing she could blend in with the wall. And when you snap back to reality, Jack follows.
He clears his throat, taking a step back. “Teach you in the ER, I mean. If you want to or—or if you ever decide to come back, you know. But no pressure or anything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him, in the politest tone that you can master. Already grieving that small moment you knew could never last.
Javadi can barely wait for him to leave — before her face breaks into a smile. “Aw, he has a crush on you.”
“Which you have told me a dozen times, and I’ll continue to reply that no, he doesn’t,” although your own face treacherously heats up.
“He flirted with you just now.”
“He flirts with everyone. He’s like an energy vampire, that’s why he doesn’t look his age.”
Trinity groans somewhere behind you. She takes her earbuds out and sits up, stretching her shoulders. “To be fair, his flirting isn’t that impressive.”
“I think half of the ER would disagree,” Javadi eagerly retorts. If there’s one thing these two don’t ever get tired of, it’s bickering.
“Oh no, he is charming. With everyone but her,” Trinity turns to you with a shit-eating grin. “With you, he’s awkward. Which, don’t get me wrong, is hilarious to witness. But Crash does have a point — he’s totally into you.”
“Did you two just agree on something? I must be hallucinating.”
Javadi rolls her eyes. Santos just huffs a laugh. She grabs her backpack, smartphone and an already opened silvery-blue can.
“He’s also been very moody since you moved to the upper floor. Just saying,” she winks at you and walks out, loudly gulping her Red Bull.
Your mood hasn’t been good either. It gets a little worse once you realise you reached the bottom of your frothy drink. And somehow, your second wind didn’t kick in.
“Can you develop a high tolerance to coffee? I feel like I should be way more awake. This cup is literally the size of a newborn.”
“Babe, you know there’s barely any coffee in it,” Javadi says, no judgment, just a little bit of pity. “You just crave sugar because your body needs some fuel to continue functioning.”
“But what if coffee isn’t working anymore... What’s the next best option? Cocaine?”
“You can’t afford cocaine.”
“I’ll sell a kidney.”
“Can’t do that either, you need them both.”
“I didn’t say I would sell mine.”
The laugh she gives you sounds half-hearted. Her face looks serious when she notes. “I know that humour is your defensive mechanism, but sometimes it’s okay to actually talk about what’s bothering you.”
“I’m very bothered by the amount of unsolicited therapy you keep bringing into our friendship,” you quip. And your regret is instant. “Sorry, I genuinely don’t remember the last time I slept for more than five hours.”
“Has Park been riding you too much? You know you are allowed to take breaks, even if he doesn’t think so.”
“No, it’s not that I don’t have free time, I just— I can’t fall asleep. I drag my feet and doze off ten times a day, but the second my head hits the pillow — nothing. My body is not... bodying or whatever the fuck it’s called.”
And then you watch her worry bleed into a different expression. She looks at you, a little coy, a little bit excited.
“I might have an idea. But I need you not to laugh at me.”
“Vic, I am physically closer to a zombie than to a human being. If there’s any way to help me fall asleep faster, I’ll try it.”
“Okay, there’s this app... With a collection of audios. Recorded by men and women, you can pick. They sort of play out different imaginary scenarios, like meeting you for the first time and getting to know each other. And maybe, like, kissing or —”
“Just to clarify, you recommend that I listen to some porn?” you’re trying to drag out some of the whipped cream with a straw.
“It’s not porn!” she hisses, adorably ashamed. “I mean, not always. They aren’t all explicit. The ones I’ve listened to, they were... Really immersive. And it just feels nice. Helps to take your mind off things. I don’t know, I kinda thought you’d be into it.”
“Masturbation? I feel like I should be offended.”
“No, the whole... Talking thing.”
With your mouth full, you raise a brow at her, somewhat confused.
“I mean, isn’t that why you liked working with Abbot? He was explaining everything to you, always talked you through the procedures and stuff. And now you are super annoyed because Park barely speaks. Just glares at people.”
“I assure you, I’m not at all annoyed that my attending does not turn me on.”
Javadi giggles, leaning toward you. “So what you’re saying is that... Abbot turned you on?”
“You know what, now I actually want to kill myself.”
“No, you still have an hour of your shift left. And then,” she rubs your arm with small, comforting circles, back to her serious self. “You will come home, take a scalding shower, just as you like it, pop in a couple of melatonin gummies, and get some sleep.”
“Those gummies don’t do shit. I ate four last time and then stared at the ceiling for two hours.”
She playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Well, there’s always another option,” Javadi laughs at your grimace and gets up. “I need to go back to other unstable people. Text me when you get home. I’m serious.”
“Will do, mom.”
She flips you off on her way out.
Whatever little caffeine’s been in your drink, it helps you look less dead and more like a person who can be trusted with a scalpel. The OR floor is quiet and cool, and from afar, Park can be mistaken for a statue: a tall body made of sharp lines and muscles, staying completely still as he looks through a patient’s file.
He waits for you to reach the nursing station. Gives you one quick look, his eyes deep blue, cold like ice.
“Got enough coffee to keep you standing? Don’t want to scrape you off the floor.”
You give him a dry chuckle. “When have you ever scraped me off the floor?”
One corner of his mouth moves up, merely an inch. “Fair,” he says, his gaze back to the tablet. “I’d like for it to stay that way.”
“So who’s the last one for today? Anything exciting?”
“Male, 63, a proximal humerus fracture. It’s all in his file. I’ll see you in ten.”
Big fucking thanks for the detailed reply.
“They say that brevity is the soul of wit, but no one tells you it’s also such a mood killer,” you mutter, not bothering to keep your voice down.
Park makes a sound that’s more of a long hum than a real laugh. He throws the words over his shoulder: “I’ll let you do the CRPP.”
“Thanks, I’m smiling on the inside.”
He never really smiles. Or says more than he needs to. And sometimes you’re thankful that he doesn’t: it unironically makes him almost the perfect mentor for you.
Unlike the previous one.
You may never admit it out loud, but you’ve come to enjoy working with Park. He’s harsh at times, yes, but he is also quick and talented and not that bad at teaching. The problem isn’t that he doesn’t talk much. You don’t mind doing your own research, and you’re actually okay with him being closed off.
The real problem is Jack Abbot. Who has been driving you insane.
At first, there were no signs of trouble.
You picked the night shift for your rotation because you’ve always been more of a night owl, and you enjoyed the challenge that comes with the variety of traumas. You two clicked from day one — Jack carried just the right amount of confidence to seem trustworthy, but his male ego didn’t get offended by someone else’s talent. He smiled at you and made small talk and always offered answers to your questions. He also smiled and talked to literally everybody else, so you didn’t think much of it. At least, you tried not to. You told yourself that you came to the ER to learn, that you wouldn’t allow your feelings to interrupt your job.
Even when said feelings turned into a crush. That felt like an addiction.
It started with you waiting. Wanting. More of his words, his gaze, his flattering attention. Jack always knew exactly how to land a compliment — his words were short, sure. Accompanied by that hint of a smile. He’d stand close, just on the edge of inappropriately close, his steady voice providing guidance. He’d push you when he knew that you could handle it. He’d tell you all the necessary steps and walk you through them and somehow make you feel like you succeeded on your own. “Yes, that’s the move.” “Look at you taking risks, kid.” “Good” —
— “girl”, you wanted Jack to add.
So good for him, you wanted him to think.
You wanted him. God knows, you wanted him so badly.
It didn’t help that Shen soon started calling you “Jack’s favorite”. Sometimes in front of Abbot, who hasn’t denied it once. Ellis discreetly (so she thought) tried leaving you alone with him more often. And even Crus once told you that you were the only resident Jack paid so much attention to.
It could’ve been a picture-perfect start of a love story, if only not for one crucial piece missing: Jack never crossed the line.
Even after you’ve caught his gaze lingering, his hands reaching for you, his warmth grazing your shoulder or your spine. On more than one occasion. And still, it led nowhere. There were no accidental touches, no flirting outside of the ER, he didn’t even try to get your number.
Inevitably, it made you feel self-conscious. Stupid. Pathetic even. What’s worse, his presence was distracting, and losing focus was the one thing you absolutely couldn’t do.
So you looked for a way out that’d let you save your dignity and your career. Switching to surgery helped you with both. Despite the fact that you had to restart your year. Despite seeing the very obviously hurt expression on Jack’s face when you informed him. He didn’t try to stop you, though. You didn’t tell him why exactly you were leaving. Instead, you dived right into work: from dealing with small fractures and arthritis to sports injuries, torn muscles, spinal disorders and crushed bones. It was in no way easy, but it felt empowering — knowing that you could fix something so strong and weighty, the living tissues made of minerals and collagen, the bony structure that allows people to move.
And on the rare occasions your paths crossed, Abbot kept being friendly. But you kept your distance.
Even if deep down, you still missed him.
His gaze, his guidance. Most of all, his voice.
It takes you two more days to finally give up and ask Javadi about the app.
Hey, so that app that’s totally not audio porn... Can you please give me the name. And then forget I asked.
Actually, forgetting might not be enough. Next time you come over, I’ll need you to swear on the Bible.
There’s no way you have a Bible at home.
Well, another option is a blood oath.
I’m this 🤏 close to admitting you into our psych ward.
Just say you miss me and want to see me more often. There’s no shame in it!
Please, get fucked (literally 😛).
You click the App Store link she sent, then press on the newly downloaded icon on the screen.
The layout is pretty simple — pale colors, normal-sized fonts, a short video guide. You don’t waste time and tap on the male voices' section to look through their audio titles. They aren’t at all exhilarating. A Trip to the G-spot (thanks, been there), Hold on to my nuts! (yikes), Your Daddy’s Home (double yikes), The Song of Praise and Cum (this calls for a lobotomy). You spend another minute on it, already battling frustration — and you’re about to log off, when finally a title catches your attention:
A Helping Hand.
“Okay, a little on the nose,” you mumble to yourself.
It is a series of recordings, about half an hour each. It seems that he is relatively new, but he’s got great reviews. His nickname is Nightcrawler. He has no profile photo. His bio says: “I guess, this is my new hobby.”
You’re positive that it won’t work on you.
You take a shower, put on your pajamas and your noise-cancelling headphones. You sit in bed, your back against the pillows. With zero expectations (except maybe to find it all ridiculous and cringe).
You press play.
At first, there’s just silence.
And then he starts, his voice unhurried like a rustle of the wind:
“Hi, baby. You look so tired,” he murmurs. “You’ve had a hard day, I can tell.”
You pause immediately. But not because you hate it. It startles you — how much you like him from the get-go, how just a sentence of this stranger’s voice made heat flash in your stomach.
You try to sit a little straighter. Then press play again.
“All that tension in your body, that slight soreness of your muscles... We really need to do something about it, honey. I can’t have you going to sleep so tense.”
Yeah, you don’t want that either.
His every quiet word strikes home: your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, your mind is clouded with it. You let out a breath you didn’t realize that you were holding. And you don’t think that him saying all that is a hell of a coincidence. Instead, it actually feels nice: for someone else to talk about your struggles. For it to sound like understanding.
“Don’t worry, I can fix that. You just lie down and listen to my voice.”
So you slide lower in your bed, the pillows now behind your head and shoulders. And when he asks to close your eyes, you do.
You follow every single one of his instructions. His raspy, gently voiced commands: he’s telling you to take deep breaths, to slowly stretch out your arms and legs, to draw small circles over your temples, to put your hands lower and massage your neck. He’s telling you he wishes he was there to help you. That he would know exactly where to rub and press. And that his fingers would’ve felt much better.
Then he’s instructing you to put hands on your chest, to run them up and down your body to get your blood flowing. You do just that. And soon you feel your skin prickle with warmth.
“Need you to relax, to shut off that beautiful brain of yours,” he says, with a controlled and hushed insistence. “Don’t think about anything. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”
Your thoughts are light; there’s nothing on your mind but him. Your muscles pliantly unravel as he continues speaking. About how warm your skin must feel, how pretty you are looking — laid out for him on your bedcovers. And there’s another feeling that feeds off his voice: a spark of fire that grows and spreads and makes you ache for more.
You hear him telling you to move your hands down to your stomach. He says he wishes he could touch you there, to slowly drag his fingers down to your navel —
“Wish I could feel how wet you are right now.”
Your eyelids flutter open.
You probably should’ve predicted this turn of events. And truthfully, you aren’t as opposed to it as you thought you would be. You’re just not sure it will work. But when you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your panties —
you find the fabric in between your legs already soaked.
All that from someone talking to you nicely?
There must be something in his voice.
That same voice whispers:
“Touch yourself.”
Barely a second passes before you do.
This isn’t your first time, but somehow, it feels very different. More satisfying. Way more intimate. Pads of your fingers move against your clit, exactly how he tells you:
“want you to go slow for me, baby. rub it in circles, ju-ust like that,”
“apply more pressure with your index finger — feels good, yeah? c’mon, don’t stop,”
“now move a little lower, feel what a mess you’re making. I know you must be dripping”.
He’s right, you are. And then your eyes fall shut again, a whimper tumbling from your lips.
“I bet you’d feel so tight around my fingers,” he says hoarsely, making you clench around nothing.
If he was here, in your room, you’d shamelessly beg for more. A long-forgotten pleasure starts coiling in your stomach.
“Want you to put a finger in,” he orders. “Imagine that it’s mine.”
You start with one. Just one, and yet, it’s getting difficult to focus on his words. And fleetingly, with your chest heaving, you wonder what his fingers would feel like. As if he reads — or guesses — where your thoughts are wandering, he tells you, a smirk heard in his voice:
“But mine would be a lot thicker, so I need you to add another one,” — you slip the second finger in, and he lets out a hum, like he can see you, — “There you go. Don’t rush it, we’ve got time. I’d never rush it with you, honey.”
Despite you trying to move slowly, you’re getting dangerously close to cumming. You want to drag it out, you do, but he is making it too hard. When he is whispering to spread your legs wider. To set a rhythm, to start moving your hips a little. When he is telling you that you’re doing so good.
When he wants you to use your free hand to touch your nipples. When he says, teasingly, how much he wishes he could put his lips on you.
When you can hear him sigh, like all this also turns him on.
“Want you to go faster,” his words come out in low grunts. “Yes, keep going, don’t stop. Keep fucking yourself. Need to get you loosened up and ready for me. Fuck, your cunt would feel so perfect wrapped around my cock —”
Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and shuddering.
You’re gasping, too loudly to hear what he is saying, your body floating in the waves of bliss. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath.
The audio ends abruptly on his own heavy breathing.
You are left stupefied and sweaty. And satisfied beyond description. Your headphones end up thrown across the bed, but you’re too tired to move an inch. It is a very pleasant kind of tired.
Before you know it, you are fast asleep.
What’s meant to be just a one-off soon turns into a habit. And you don’t really feel ashamed about it.
There is a certain thrill to it — having a secret you don’t want to share, the one thing you can’t wait to get home to. It does help you to take the edge off, yes: with just his words, he makes your tension melt away, makes all the worries disappear. Leaving you dazed and gasping at the thought of how good he’d fuck you.
But sometimes, as you come down from your high, your thighs wet and hands trembling, and he is soothing you back into consciousness — the stranger’s voice reminds you of Jack’s.
It can’t be him, of course.
You wish it was.
You also wish you could move on. Unstitch him from your memories that he’s been woven into, his face and arms and words seemingly always on your mind. They shouldn’t be, not when your feelings are so obviously one-sided.
So, since you’re able to wake up well-rested, you start to pile on more work.
You take your time to learn about non-invasive treatments: you get to know the PTMC’s physician and psychiatrist, you print out studies about injections and post-operative care, you spend your breaks leafing through the countless pages. You learn fast. You grab at every chance to practice. You ask to scrub in on some of Garcia’s cases, you’re lucky to assist Javadi’s mother a few times. And even though you feel that Park’s a little bit suspicious of your ardor, he asks no questions.
You don’t see Jack. He’s still on nights, and you are mostly up in the OR, and even when you do come down, you do your best to stay away. You hope that a tight schedule and your daily orgasms will be enough of a distraction. That at some point, your crush will quietly die down.
It’s no surprise that you’re working on the 4th.
And it’s predictably a shitshow: the waiting room is packed with patients, swamped with the summer heat, every new injury is worse — and way more gruesome — than the other. You deal with fractured, broken bones, you get to help with torn-off fingers, bashed-in skulls and penetrating wounds. You rush from one OR into the other. You barely get time to take a breath. And once you finally do, you get called down to the ER.
“Look who it is. Since when does surgery send its best residents to us poor mortals?” Robby puts on a smile to greet you.
“Garcia is still operating on Howard, Park’s dealing with your water slide case. I’m just happy to treat someone with intact bones for a change.”
“Can’t promise it will be a pretty sight.”
“Didn’t count on it.”
He cackles, his gloved hand pointing toward the sliding doors the gurneys come through. “Here’s the reason we called for a consult. Yours is the one with Old Glory jammed in his chest.”
And in the next second, your own chest tightens, anxiety bruising your ribcage like a seatbelt in a crash. Because the aforementioned patient is rolled in by Jack.
He doesn’t see you yet. You can’t help but notice — the tension roped around his back, the sheen of sweat around his forehead, faint sleepless shadows spilled under his eyes. Reflexively, you step out of the way so he can move down the hall without bumping into you. So you can stay unnoticed.
The injured man is in the middle of a screaming match with some guy whose cheek is slashed in half.
“I’m gonna take that thing out of my chest and shove it down your ass!”
“You hit me with a fucking Rolling Rock, man!”
“Because you are a cheater! And now my chest fucking hurts!”
“You’re the one who broke the rules! You know every detail must be —”
“Take yours into trauma 2 before I go deaf on one ear,” Abbot mumbles to Ellis, then tries to shush his patient. It isn’t working.
And you can tell that Jack is low on patience.
He grips the gurney with both hands and pushes it into the room, his voice coming out low and clipped:
“Sir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth.”
It is a quick remark, maybe a little out of his character — too blunt, too rude; although acceptable under the current circumstances. And in the never-ending noise and busyness of the ER no one would ever waste their time on lecturing him. You aren’t even sure they heard.
But you freeze. As if a bomb just went off. The world around you is momentarily devoid of all the other sounds.
It isn’t the specific words, but the emotions you could hear behind them — intensity Jack usually reigns in, the punctuated heat of anger that slipped through his “shut” and “fucking”. You aren’t surprised he said those words. Or used that tone. Or lost his self-restraint for a few seconds.
You’re struck by the realization that you have heard him talk like that before.
“If his heart was damaged, he surely wouldn’t be yelling,” Robby comes up to you, eyeing the rowdy patient. “But the stabbing’s definitely within the cardiac box. What do you think?”
“Cardiac box it is. I’d bet on a pneumothorax,” you say, on some miraculous autopilot. But you aren’t looking at the patient.
Jack grabs the scissors to remove the man’s clothes, his hands working around the wooden stick he is impaled on; his gaze grazes you. On accident or maybe out of habit Jack hasn’t managed to unlearn. He turns to throw away the ruined, blood-stained fabric — then stops. And then his eyes come back to you, this time with purpose. He meets your gaze, his own confused a little, one of his brows crawling up. Because you’re staring at him, and he has no idea why.
It’s almost funny to imagine how you’d explain to him your stupor. Hey, Jack, is there a chance you like recording steamy audios? 'Cause I believe that I’ve been getting off to the sound of your voice.
But at the moment, you aren’t laughing.
You make an effort to drag your gaze away, your heartbeat loud in your ears. This can’t be happening. It cannot actually be him.
“Do an ultrasound to get a confirmation, I’ll go up to prep the OR,” you say to Robby flatly, eager to leave the room, to have a minute to yourself.
You take the stairwell, thoughts rushing as your feet are. And very quickly, your shock gives way to irritation. Surely, Jack is allowed to do whatever in his free time. But now that you suspect it’s him — his low voice that is so masterful at saying all those dirty things — you don’t think you’ll be able to relax. It would also be kinda inappropriate to continue listening to that.
But then you spend another seven hours on your feet. Three surgeries, two breaks (about ten minutes in total), a lot of blood and bones, a few of Park’s dry words. You miss the fireworks, the get-together with your former colleagues, the friendly chatter that maybe could’ve helped you to unwind. And by the time you cross the hall of your apartment, you find it hard to care about propriety.
You put the headphones on, fully aware that you’re about to hear Jack.
It doesn’t ruin things for you. It only turns you on instead.
Because it’s not some random guy — it’s Jack who puts you on all fours. Jack who tells you to put your fingers in your mouth. To suck them, to then take them deeper, to gag on them, just like he could’ve made you gag around his cock.
“Ass up for me, baby,” he instructs, his every word now carrying more weight — you cannot stop imagining him being here, whispering it all into your ear. “Bet your pussy is wet enough to take two fingers right away. C’mon, be a good girl. Show me.”
You never even think about reaching for your toys. You don’t need to: not when his voice alone makes waves of heat roll through your body, makes you pulsate with want, moan with longing.
“Want you to think of my cock slowly stretching you,” Jack rasps, “Because it’s all I think about,” and you’re imagining his chest pressed to your back, the sounds he would make while thrusting deep, deeper, relentless movement of his hips, his lips grazing your neck, “I know you’ll take my cock so well. Like it was made for fucking you.”
His big hands roaming over your body. His hot breath on your skin. Him, him, it has always been him.
“I’d make you feel so good. Until you drip all over my cock. Until you’re sobbing for me to fill you up,” he whispers heatedly. “I will. Just so I can fuck my cum back into you when we go for round two. I know my girl is always greedy for more.”
And he is right, you would be.
“Like you were made for it. For me.”
You cum as hard as always, breathless and shaking. And this time, with his name helplessly gasped against your pillow. A few long seconds after that, in your sweet postorgasmic haze, you get a very clear thought: you still want Jack, now more than ever.
And you two really need to talk.
You press Call before you can come up with yet another argument for why this is a bad idea. She picks up in four seconds, but you don’t let her say a word.
“Hey, so do remember when you guys went out last time, and I couldn’t go because of that leg amputation thing, and you told me you ended up in some new bar, with those big plants or whatever, and Abbot was there too?”
“Wow, are you already on cocaine?” Javadi laughs.
“No, I just had a good night of sleep, so please keep up. You’re coming to the same bar this Friday, right?”
“Yep, that’s the plan. You decided to join us?”
“I’m thinking about it. But I’m gonna be at least an hour late, cause I’d have to get home to change and then —”
“Or you can just come right after work. The place isn’t that fancy. You can do casual.”
“I don’t want casual. I wear jeans 360 days a year, it’d be nice to actually feel pretty for once.”
“Oh, cut the crap, I know you’d look great in anything!”
“That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m not calling to discuss my wardrobe. I was wondering if you can... If by any chance Jack shows up again —”
“O-ooh.”
“No, don’t oh at me. You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”
“If Abbot shows up, I’m gonna tell him that you are coming too, so he’ll stay and wait for you.”
“Okay, you can add mind-reading to your resume, you witch.”
“You’re both kinda predictable,” Javadi notes with a chuckle. “When he came last time, he left immediately after he found out you weren’t there.”
“Or he just remembered he left the stove on and didn’t want his flat to burn down. It’s not like he explicitly told you why he was leaving.”
“He didn’t need to,” she argues. “He came in, went straight to the bar where we were hanging out, ordered a beer and managed the small talk for barely a minute before he flat-out asked if you were there. Looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you didn’t come. Wished us a good night and took off, didn’t even take his beer.”
That does sound like he came to see you. You find it cute. But only for a moment — until you get a stinging thought: if he wanted to see you outside of work, why has he never asked you out?
“I’ll text you when I’m done,” you say, trying to sound unconcerned, unruffled by the possibility of your months-long feelings being reciprocated. “The spinal fusion should take about three hours.”
“Ugh, it sounds so cool when you say it, but then I remember what that process actually is like.”
“It is pretty cool.”
“And I am very glad you think that,” she’s quick to reassure. “Go fuse some vertebrae, so we’ll have something to drink to!”
The surgery takes four hours.
It is a slow, meticulous procedure accompanied by Park’s curt advice and your own strategic guesses — and usually, something like that would leave you drained. Hardly in the mood for socializing. But this evening, you step out of the OR with a wide grin.
“Good call about rotating the metal plates,” Park says, his voice emotionless. Like he’s not sure himself that it’s a compliment.
Still, you take it.
“Thank you, I did some reading beforehand,” you tell him, throwing away your dirty gloves and gown. “Should help with healing, too. But knock on wood, we’ll see what his post-op scans show.”
And you’re already doing some non-work-related calculations in your head. 10 minutes on filling out the patient’s file, 10 more for ordering a cab and waiting for it, then if you’re lucky, you’ll be home in 20 —
“Abbot was right about you.”
That makes you stop. Makes an uncomfortable feeling settle in your stomach. You haven’t seen Brendon and Jack talk once. And you cannot imagine them talking about you.
You turn to Park, not smiling anymore:
“Care to explain?”
“He wrote you a recommendation letter. Didn’t he tell you?” he casually clarifies. “Not that I asked for it. But he delivered it himself, four pages in Times New Roman,” the straight line of his mouth curves a little. Almost a smirk, but not unkind. And he does seem sincere when he adds, “Abbot was right, you are great. Glad to have you on our team.”
“Hold on. I just want to get a few facts straight,” and your tone is astonishingly calm, despite it feeling like your blood is simmering. “So he came to you. With a printed-out letter. And then what, you guys talked?”
“Yes. About the letter.”
“About me, you mean.”
“The letter was about your competence and skills. What else was there to discuss,” he deadpans. “Is this interrogation over?”
“Oh, come on, that was only two questions. Don’t act like I am waterboarding you,” you huff, hands on your hips.
Park breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head. You’re half expecting him to grouse about it some more. But he does what you expect the least.
“He talks about you, you talk about him,” Park muses coolly. “You guys just need to fuck it out.”
He shoves his own gown in the trash, turns on his heels and leaves.
And under other circumstances, you would’ve been so glad to hear it. Jack talked about you! Jack seems to care!
Except, he had a perfect chance to actually show you that. But on your final day in the ER, he barely said a word. It stayed stuck in your memory, the last nail in the coffin where your hopes were buried: Jack’s weird avoidance, no jokes, no flirting, none of his usual penchant for eye contact. He spent the whole shift painfully indifferent to your departure. Only once you started saying your goodbyes, he came by to wish you luck. To say that he was sure you’d do great. Two sentences was all he managed.
And yet, he had no trouble talking about you with Park?!
You’d really like to get a fucking explanation.
You don’t go home to change. You come straight to the noisy bar, in your plain jeans and baggy shirt. And wrapped up in anger. You scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot Victoria from afar: some tipsy guy is cornering her, wildly gesticulating with his hands. She doesn’t really seem scared, mostly annoyed. But you are in no mood for being civil.
You unceremoniously walk up to them and grab the stranger by the shoulder to pull him back.
“Her face clearly suggests she’s not interested. Get lost.”
“Hello to you too,” he whistles, leering at you. “You wanna be our third, babygirl? I’m always down for... some new experiences.”
“I can help you with that. You ever heard about a comminuted fracture? It’s when a bone is broken in two or more places. Which you are about to experience if you don’t leave in 10 seconds.”
“You’re into human anatomy? That’s hot,” the man grins drunkenly, but his flirting sounds less sure.
“I’m an orthopedic surgeon. There are 3 long bones in your arm, 27 in your hand. Which one would hurt more when broken, how do you think? You’ve got seven seconds. Six —”
“Geez, fucking chill, girl,” he mutters and steps back to hastily retreat.
Javadi snorts a laugh. “Thank you, he was so annoying, I just didn’t want to make a scene. You’d think the "Let’s go, lesbians!" t-shirt would help him get a hint but —” and then she takes you in — your searching gaze and furrowed brows and pursed lips. “What’s wrong?”
“Where’s Abbot?”
“It depends. Am I gonna be an accomplice to murder if I tell you?”
“You may be a witness.”
“I don’t think that’s any better,” but luckily, she knows you well enough to figure out that there’s no point in questions. Javadi holds both hands up in surrender. “Okay-okay, last time I saw him, he was at the bar.”
You go for it, barrelling through the crowd like an icebreaker through the frozen water. You notice Trinity, Dennis, Mel, Frank and Jesse nearby. You only have eyes for one man in particular. But at the long table where the drinks are being poured and paid for, there is no sign of Jack. You stop and wait; one minute, two, three pass by. And just as quickly, your determination crumbles.
You wanted him to tell you that he needed you to stay, all these days back, in person. You wanted him to wait for you today. Both times, he didn’t.
It makes you feel self-conscious again. Stupid. Even more pathetic.
You turn around, suddenly too overwhelmed by your own feelings.
The music is too loud now, the smell of alcohol mixing with sweat and perfume, and making your head hurt. You faintly hear someone call out your name, but you don’t stop, too desperate to get back to the exit. Too tired of waiting for the one thing that clearly isn’t meant to be.
The street is quiet, and the air is cold; it doesn’t help to cool you down. You’re walking a thin line between infuriated and upset. It gnaws away at you — that you spent so much time delusionally sure that Jack felt something for you. Cared for you. You think about his watchful gaze on you, the tension hung between you two, his hands he kept a little bit too close, his words that guided you through surgeries and orgasms, his goddamn voice —
You are so deep in your frustrations, you miss the sound of the door opening, the footsteps rushing toward you.
“Hey,” he says it carefully, and yet, you flinch. You turn around to find Jack standing at arm’s length already. Black jeans, grey t-shirt and black denim jacket; he looks unfairly handsome. He also looks concerned. “Is everything alright? The way you left got me worried.”
“Yeah, everything’s just peachy.”
But Jack ignores your sarcasm — or rather looks right past it, reading the very clear displeasure on your face. “Is it Park? Did something happen?”
And his concern doesn’t sound feigned.
It all comes to your mind at once — the unsaid words, unresolved tension, the longing gazes thrown at each other, the shamefully short distance your bodies never crossed. It roars your emotions to a boil.
“Why does everyone assume— You know what? Park is actually perfect,” you snap at him. “He barely speaks to me in the OR, he hates small talk, he is allergic to long sentences and, I suspect, to any sign of real human emotion. So I just clock in every shift to spend 15 hours trying to help people with very little to no guidance. And turns out, I still rock! Even when my mentor is as emotionally evolved as a toothpick!”
“Ok-kay,” Jack draws, “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing?”
“It’s freaking amazing. Especially compared to the alternative,” and then you step to him, your palms angrily pushing against his chest. “Because you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe!”
Your hands don’t hurt him. But your words do. His eyes go wide, he’s speechless for a moment. Then slowly, very quietly, Jack says:
“Wait, what?”
“You wrote me a recommendation letter, but you couldn’t say a word when I was leaving? After the months we worked together, all you could manage was good luck? The hell is wrong with you?!” and his shell-shocked expression only spurs you on. “You act all nicely, you’re glued to me in the ER, with your advice and your attention and your— your smirking! And what’s with the intense eye contact? How was I supposed to work with you looking at me like that? You know how hard it was for me to focus?! It’s not like I was holding scalpels half of the time!” you huff angrily.
Still, he isn’t moving.
“Sure, it didn’t mean anything to you, you don’t like me like that. And I love surgery, I’m glad I transferred, I wouldn’t want to waste my time on someone who is emotionally mute. But then I find out — oh, you’re actually very talkative! And it’s not like I wanted to find out, I just needed something to help me unwind, anything, because it’s been so damn exhausting — not just the job, but also you and your mood swings and your stupid voice and—” you cross your arms over your chest and add, with an unbridled boldness, “And honestly? After everything, I should be the one you lend a helping hand to.”
The dim streetlights can offer some discreteness — but not enough to cover the flush of color that spreads over Jack’s cheeks. You don’t back off — instead, you take your phone out and click the app’s icon to show it to him on the screen. His gaze flicks down to it. Then back to your face.
You stare at each other.
And then you think: he is about to tell you you’re an idiot. A sleep-deprived one, because it wasn’t really his voice. He has no clue what you just talked about, he obviously isn’t on any apps nor is he —
Jack breathes out a laugh.
He clasps his hands behind his back, the muscles of his chest pulling his t-shirt tight. His gaze is locked on yours. Then it falls lower — to your lips, then your neck, your chest and stomach, leaving a hot trail down your body.
“It got that bad, huh?” a corner of his mouth twitches up. Not condescending but amused. And then his voice drops — to that exact honeyed murmur that dragged so many orgasms out of you. “F’course, I can help you out. Should’ve asked me sooner, sweetheart.”
The sound knocks the anger out of you. The air, too.
You knew he sounded good on audio, when his words reached you through the headphones, when he so charitably helped you reach your high.
But in reality, he’s lethal.
When this same voice is paired with his gaze, with the intensity and confidence that you’re disarmed by. Entranced by. When Jack comes closer, you stay frozen.
“Mine or yours?” he asks calmly.
“W-what?”
“My place or yours?”
You catch small specks of golden light lost in his hazel eyes. You blink twice to stop staring. “Mine is about 40 minutes away.”
Emotion flashes across his face — surprise that’s borderline on worry. He lets it slide. He takes your hand in his, firmly, putting his fingers between yours.
“I live much closer. My car is parked around the corner,” Jack notes and leads the way, carefully pulling you along.
You let him.
You know it’s impolite to gawk, but you can’t help it — you’re pretty sure his hallway alone can fit half of your flat. It is a spacious, very minimalistic place: tall walls, a lot of lights and very little furniture. You guess that he hand-picked each piece — from wooden shelves and cupboards to small colourful pouffes. You also don’t think he spends too much time in here.
“So how many roommates do you have?” you ask cautiously as you get out of your shoes.
“None,” Jack chuckles. “It’s my apartment.”
“You live here by yourself? This place could fit a football team,” your own chuckle is nervous. As is your involuntary blabbing. “I’m serious, 11 full-grown men could stay here, and half of them won’t even see each other. Is there a bowling alley somewhere? A golf course? Ten jacuzzis? —”
He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing your back into his chest. Solid and warm, and rendering you silent.
“How about I do the talking,” his breath scatters against the side of your neck. Both of his hands find your hips, and very slowly, he turns you to face him. His eyes look a shade darker when he says, “I’ll walk you to the bedroom.”
And then his mouth is on yours.
There is no build-up and no hesitation — he kisses you so hungrily and deeply, like he’s been starving this whole time. Just like you were. Your shuddering breath turns into a moan. His lips move seamlessly, matching his insatiability to yours, in a deliberately slow pace that leaves you dizzy, heated, panting. Your memory is wiped clean of every other man you’ve kissed before him.
You can only crave more.
Jack starts walking without breaking the kiss. He gently pushes you forward, his hands maneuvering your body around the furniture and into doorways — you’re blindly following his lead. Until he stops you.
He tsks against your lips. “Careful, you almost ran into a wall.”
“Well, it’s not like I can really see —”
Jack silences your protests with another kiss, one of his palms laid flat over your spine to steady you. Not once do you take a peek at your surroundings, entirely too focused on the movement of his mouth, and with his every touch, your heart grows louder.
All of a sudden, your legs bump into something — and in a second, your back hits layers of bedcovers, the fabric silky to the touch. You exhale shakily, taking a couple of seconds to collect yourself. The task proved to be impossible under his heavy stare.
The room is dim, drowned in the colors of the sunset that sinks in through the big uncovered windows. He took the jacket off somewhere along the way, and you watch as the coppery light sneaks into his curls, contours the lines of veins and muscles of his arms, his body standing right next to the bed, legs almost touching yours.
You guess that he is stalling in case you want to stop.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me what to do?” you want your words to sound like a challenge — instead, they come out as a plea.
You don’t mind. There’s nothing on your mind but him.
Jack gives you just a ghost of a smile, a low hum coming from deep in his chest.
“Ask me nicely,” he says, in that gravelly voice that makes desire spark up in your bloodstream.
And he already knows that he won’t meet resistance — Jack leans over the bed, palms firmly gliding up your thighs until he finds the zipper of your jeans. He takes the slider between two fingers but doesn’t pull it down. And you’re glad that you aren’t standing, because the way he’s staring at you makes your whole body weak, your bones and muscles turning liquid.
“Please, I’ll do anything,” you whisper.
You do not need to ask him twice.
Jack yanks the slider down and pulls your jeans — down to your knees, then fully off. He parts your thighs with his leg, his gaze drawn to your panties, to where the fabric is already dampened with your arousal. You watch him slowly wet his lips, your body shivering in anticipation of his touch. And then he’s climbing on the bed, his body propped up on his arms, his weight between your thighs. He doesn’t hover over you — because he’s equally impatient: instead, he leans down to eagerly capture your mouth with his.
His lips trap you in place — while his hands undress you: his fingers are unbuttoning your shirt to take it off, then sliding beneath your cotton tanktop, dragging it up over your ribcage —
then Jack sucks in a breath.
His words are muffled, his lips brushing yours:
“No bra?”
“I don’t— don’t like the feeling of it,” you explain bashfully.
That earns you a pleased smirk. He actually pulls back to take a look, to hastily pull your last piece of clothing off. Then Jack ducks his head.
“And how’d you like this?” he asks before catching your nipple into his mouth.
You cry out at the sensation, and Jack uses one hand to pin you to the bed. He pulls more sounds out of you, swirling his tongue around your nipples, biting and sucking at them, his hunger mixed with admiration. Your heartbeat’s pounding in your ears, the pleasure surging through you like a heat wave —
But unexpectedly, Jack pulls away.
He reaches out to click the lamp on the nightstand. The light is faint, warm, draping your shadows over the silk. Jack lies down on his side, keeping his face close to yours.
“Show me how you do it.”
“You— Um. You want me to show you how—”
“Touch yourself for me,” he orders.
Blood rushes to your cheeks. But you comply, too eager for his praise. For all of his recorded promises to finally come true.
Jack watches raptly as your hand moves lower, slowly, just like he taught you the first time — until your fingers dip under the fabric of your underwear. You bite your lower lip, stifling a whimper, feeling the arousal leaking out of you. You spread your legs wider, the thin cotton not leaving much to the imagination as you start toying with your clit.
Jack swallows noisily, his breath uneven. But his voice stays measured. “I want these off. Need to see you, baby.”
You hook your thumbs under your panties and tug them off, a bit too hastily, but Jack makes no attempts to slow you down. Although unvoiced, his own desire is so palpable, it sets your nerves on fire. And when the cool air grazes your wetness, you can’t help but moan.
You do not wait for his command — you spread your legs further apart, your fingers drawn to rub your aching clit. You feel Jack’s cheek pressed to your shoulder, his gaze glued to your hand.
“So what’s the preference? Do you like circling it or just the up-and-down motion?” he muses with a grin. “I see, I have some room for improvisation,” and then his breath skates up your throat, the words mouthed against your pulse point, “You’re doing so good for me. You can pick up the pace.”
You do immediately, your movements quick and frantic, and Jack’s not keeping his hands to himself. He cups your breast, pinching your nipple into a peak, rolling it expertly between his fingers, his lips wrapped tightly around the other one. Your back is arching into his touch, heat pooling in your lower belly, your fingers gliding faster up and down your slit — and then one slips inside.
Jack pulls his mouth off with a pop. “Would you look at that,” his voice is low, teasing, “Your pussy’s drooling all over the bed.” And then he smiles, hungrily baring his teeth, grazing your collarbone with them as his palm lies flat on the inside of your thigh. “Go ahead, make yourself cum.”
He is still clothed, and the material of his t-shirt rubs constantly against your naked skin as he continues his arousing, agonizing torture. You feel him everywhere — Jack’s warm breath on your neck, your cheek, his mouth placing kisses along your jaw. His hands are steadying your body as your two fingers plunge into your cunt, as you’re so diligently coaxing yourself into an orgasm. But something’s missing.
“What’s wrong? Your fingers aren’t enough?” Jack taunts. “Does my girl want me to help her?”
You nod desperately, rocking your hips into your hand, trying to get some extra friction, trying and failing to reach that sweet high on your own. He easily catches your wrist, forcing you to halt all movement, your moans reduced to needy cries.
“Tell me what you want,” Jack whispers, lips to your ear.
“I w-want your fingers. Need your fingers inside me, please —”
But just as you’re about to pull your hand away, he covers it with his.
His wide palm firmly cups your mound, pushing your fingers back into your clenching hole. Jack drags his index and middle fingers through your folds, collecting your creamy arousal. And then he eases his slicked digits into you.
He watches as your lips part in a silent moan, your thighs twitching involuntarily as you’re adjusting to the fullness. With two of your fingers already in, it is a very tight fit.
“Relax for me. I know you can take all four,” Jack coos, although his voice gets a bit strained as he feels your walls clamp down around him.
Your hand stays limp, so he pulls his thick fingers out — then ramms them back in, knuckles-deep. A choked cry leaves your mouth; but you don’t try to crawl away from the intrusion. He puts your fingers between his and starts moving them all together, unhurriedly, carefully stretching your wet cunt, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit, your juices trickling down on the bedcovers.
Before you even realize you’re doing it, you push your hips back against his palm.
“Yes, just like that,” Jack murmurs. “Feels good, doesn’t it? About to get even better.”
This time, only his hand is moving while he’s staying still, drinking you up — your body quivering, skin bathed in a sheen of perspiration, your pussy slurping around the unrelenting fingers. The sounds you’re making are downright obscene, loud moans mixed with incoherent pleas as you’re getting lost in the pleasure he gives you so freely.
Jack’s other hand comes up to turn your face to him:
“Eyes on me.”
And as you look at him through lidded eyes, he curls your own fingers inside you, pushing them up against your G-spot. The sudden pressure drags you into a climax, so powerful, you’re blinded for a second, your lungs emptied with a long-drawn exhale as you keep soundlessly mouthing his name.
Jack pulls out his fingers first, then yours. Your hand is drenched and numb, and you barely register as Abbot brings it to his mouth. He licks your fingers clean, one by one, and you are coming to your senses at the sight: his mouth sucking in your digits, your wetness smeared across his lips, his gaze piercing as he keeps eye contact. And just like that, it threads through your veins and bones: your craving for him you’re yet to satisfy.
Before you can even ask him for a kiss, he leans in to give it to you.
It’s hot, it’s messy, his tongue darting between your lips, your hands tugging at his t-shirt, then sneaking under it to feel him tense under your touch. One of his hands grips your hip, the other moving back between your legs, where you’re still sensitive, making you whimper into his mouth.
“Wanna get a proper taste,” he mumbles, his lips already trailing lower.
But you have something else in mind. You close your legs and clutch his t-shirt, your fingers roughly crumpling the fabric, making him meet your gaze again.
“Jack, I’m very grateful for the offer, but I need you to fuck me,” you don’t bother hiding your impatience. “And please, take your damn clothes off.”
He grins, and this is a command he is willing to follow. Jack brings a hand behind his neck to grab the collar of his t-shirt and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. Your eyes rake over the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms, his freckled skin flushed pink. Before he can think of his next move, you straddle him, leaning to nibble at his neck, your fingers tracing his flexing muscles.
“Someone’s very eager,” he notes with a chuckle.
And yet, the gravel in his voice is thinned out by his own keenness. When your gaze drops down, you see his cock straining against the coarse fabric of his jeans.
“Makes two of us,” you note cheekily and palm him through the denim.
His chuckle turns into a low, long groan. Like he is breaking character, like it is not as easy for him to keep his feelings under control.
You hide your smile, taking his jeans off to throw them on the floor, barely half a minute before you’re climbing back onto his lap. The bulge is now even more prominent beneath his boxer briefs: he’s thick and big, way bigger than you thought, than you imagined, than you’ve ever had. Your mouth parts on the inhale; you are dazed just from the look of it. You feel yourself already getting wet again.
Your words are stumbling out, while your brain is still somewhat functioning:
“I have an IUD, I’m clean. Haven’t been with anyone for a while.”
“Me neither. For way longer than you probably,” Abbot admits in a half-whisper, watching you attentively. Getting as drunk on the anticipation as you are.
Your fingers go for the waistband at his hips when you catch faint light glinting off the metal. Your palm briefly lies under his scarred knee.
“This okay?”
Him leaving the prosthesis on, you mean. But it is getting harder to put words into coherent sentences.
Jack gets it. “Yeah, m’fine. You want me to...?”
Remove it, is what he wants to say.
For just a moment, it comes up to the surface: his lack of confidence, not necessarily in himself but maybe in how he can be perceived, in what he looks like in your eyes. Being so close, so open, naked.
But this has always been exactly what you wanted.
“I couldn’t care less,” you whisper and tug down his briefs to free his cock.
Then you look down, and your breath hitches.
He is thick, fully hard, the tip red and already weeping. And instantly, you wonder how he tastes. How warm, how heavy he’d feel in your hand. When you reach it impulsively to wrap around him, Jack stops you, his voice a low warning:
“We both know I don’t need that.”
You almost want to whine. But you smother your discontent and move your hands up to his shoulders, holding your hips up, hovering just above his girthy length. A sigh spills from your mouth when his cock brushes your slick entrance —
And right then, Jack’s hands clamp around your thighs. His grip not bruising, but it is firm enough that you can’t move. Can’t lower yourself on him.
“Now, where are your manners, sweetheart?” he asks, playfully cruel.
He knows you’re trapped. You know it too. To prove his point, he rubs his tip against your clit, more slickness gushing out of you at the mere contact. You do let out a miserable whine, your thighs are shaking. But he stays unmoving.
And so you beg. Just like you thought you would.
“I want you, please, I want you so fucking much,” your words pour out rushed and heated, all in one breath, “Want you to fuck me, Jack, please, been thinking about it for months. Before the app, when we were still working together, each time you— you stood next to me or leaned closer during surgeries or talked me through them or— fuck, it was anything, everything, I could barely focus, only kept thinking how much I wanted you to touch me, please-please-please—”
Jack hums. His hands relent. He repositions them so he can guide you instead of stopping you.
“Months, huh? I know the feeling,” he murmurs, with unexpectedly raw honesty.
It lingers. It almost sounds like a confession. But you do not get time to catch the meaning of his words before he starts pushing his cock into your throbbing warmth.
You gasp. He’s easing you down slowly. As your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip tightens; but he keeps composure. Jack’s watching you — your eyes screwed shut and brows pinched together, your body shifting, mouth gulping air as you’re allowing him to stretch you open. He moves one of his hands to draw light circles on your clit, to help you take him, all of him, until you’ve bottomed out.
Your body stills. He feels you clench around him, your pussy gripping him so tightly, he chokes back a groan. Your forehead dips forward, helplessly.
“You are— s’big, so-o —”
“Breathe for me,” Jack instructs, both palms secured at your hips, sounding a little out of breath himself. He watches as your chest rises and falls, the uneven cadence of inhales and exhales. He mercifully gives you a minute to adjust. “Need you to start moving, baby. Yeah?”
You scramble for an answer, all your words slurring out into whines, your body barely used to the stretch. But you want to be good for him. And so you lift your hips. Just a few inches. Then sink onto his cock again, trembling at the overwhelming ache of being stuffed so full.
The pause lasts for barely three seconds.
Then your hips start moving up and down on their own, because it feels too good to stop, because the ache is quickly dissipating into pleasure.
“There she is.”
He lets you find and set the rhythm, at first more grinding and slow, your pussy swallowing him whole each time. As you let the sensation build, as it spreads and turns searing. Euphoric. And your head tips back with a moan.
“Look how well you’re taking me,” Jack praises, his voice husky with lust. “Just like I knew you would.”
His hands grip harder at your hips, and without warning, he starts bouncing you on him. His pace is quicker, harsher, the fat head of his cock rubbing against the spot that makes your vision blur. Jack leans closer to rasp the words into your ear:
“Who do you think I thought about—” his fingers move down to open your legs wider, “While making all these audios—” and he plunges deeper, “For my favorite girl—” and your moans pitch louder, “After her tiresome shifts?”
You’re too cockdrunk to even think of a reply. You’re only capable of moving your hips in time with his, nails scraping at his sweat-covered skin, your slick oozing down to his balls.
“I’m— I’m close,” you mewl. “M’gonna cum, Ja-ack.”
“Think I should let you?” he says through gritted teeth, his own control already slipping.
“P-please,” you stutter out weakly as his hips snap up, “Wanna cum, wanna— want you— t-to make me cum, please.”
A grunt escapes him, and Jack adjusts his hold, his chest heaving against yours, skin rubbing against skin. His mouth latches onto your throat, each word punctuated with a trust:
“That’s a good — fucking — girl.”
His hands drop lower to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze — and then the world around you spins as he effortlessly flips you on your back.
Your legs fall open for him, and he manages to keep his cock nestled so perfectly in your fluttering hole. He doesn’t slow down for a second: Jack shifts his weight on his left leg, angling his hips a little to hit that spot inside you over and over, making your eyes roll back in your head. The room fills with your breathy moans, your cunt squelching around his thick length, your body caged under his weight. In stark contrast, his lips are weightless — against your chest, your collarbones, your arm, mouthing pet names or more praises — or just the letters of your name, you honestly can’t tell. The meaning of his words escapes you.
“Yeah, that’s right. Need your head empty,” Jack groans, breath ragged, his pace relentless. “Need you to only think about how good I’m fucking you.”
He surely is.
Your whole body tenses.
You are so close.
And then you feel his forehead against yours, a pressure of his fingers on your clit, a command given with the utmost softness:
“Let go, baby. I got you.”
The second orgasm tears through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You cum with a sob falling from your lips, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as your pussy spasms wildly around his cock. He fucks you through it, he does try to last a little longer, but the combination of all this — the way you look, feel, finally his — pushes him over, his own pleasure so intense, he’s powerless against it. Jack’s hips jerk as he cums, filling you up, his broken groans pressed into your neck.
The room is still.
You wait for your breath and heart to calm. His hand brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face, and he whispers, still a little breathless:
“You good?”
You nod first. Then open your mouth:
“That was—” you have to swallow the slight hoarseness of your voice, “Literally the best sex I’ve ever had.” Three heartbeats later, you add with a tired laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Too late.”
You feel him smile against your cheek before he places a kiss there.
Jack pulls out carefully, leaving you empty — you have to stop yourself from reaching for him, from chasing his familiar warmth. You quietly watch him clamber off the bed and pull his briefs up, then close your eyes so he won’t catch you staring. You listen to him walk out of the room, and suddenly, a realization kicks in: his footsteps sound uneven.
Like he is limping.
Jack comes back with a wet towel and gently cleans you up, then helps you put your panties on and brings you a glass of water. And every time you look at him, your gaze catches on how he is obviously leaning on his healthy leg.
You slowly stretch your neck and shoulders, then tap on the spot next to you. “Come here.”
Jack sits down, a little bit unsure where this is going. And very much tense in the exact place you thought he would be. You move your hands to his right knee and feel his hamstrings flex involuntarily.
“You spend too much time on your feet,” you say, working your fingers over his muscles. “And you put too much pressure on it. Your leg feels like it’s made out of concrete.”
Without even looking, you can tell that now he’s tense all over.
You have seen Jack take the prosthesis off, short moments of reprieve that he allows himself too rarely for your liking, only after particularly long shifts. He isn’t shy about his disability, but he doesn’t like bringing attention to it, you’ve noticed. Like living with it isn’t hard, like it’s not that big of a deal. You also know that he’s got no one to take care of him.
You take your time massaging the scarred tissue, mostly applying pressure with your thumbs as they move from the socket up, then back down. And you know that it’s working when you hear him exhale, his breath a little ragged. Relieved.
“I try to take breaks, but you know how it is. We’re always busy,” Jack counters, with that same boyish stubbornness you can’t possibly be angry at.
“Shen’s an attending now, which is supposed to make your job easier. Don’t act like the ER’s gonna blow up if you sit down for 10 minutes,” you turn your head to look at him.
Jack doesn’t meet you with defiance — he’s sitting with his shoulders slumped and gaze mellow, way too relaxed to hide it. The sight is so endearing, your heart lurches behind your ribs. You fight the urge to kiss him. Instead, your fingers glide down to the edges of the prosthesis’s socket. You do not push it; you let him decide if he wants to be this vulnerable with you. Jack just gives you a nod. A small, barely noticeable movement. Also an immeasurable sign of trust. You carefully remove the artificial limb, then take the sock off to let his skin breathe. Your touch lingers: you lightly trace the white uneven scars, faded reminders of something horrible he managed to survive.
He lets you.
Silence fills up the space between you two, and you don’t know what to do next. Technically, you only needed sex, and Jack didn’t say that it would happen more than once. This would be the perfect moment for you to thank him and head out.
So you remove your hands —
Jack puts his arm around you, firmly. His lack of hesitation helping yours to fade away. He scoops you back, until you’re pressed to him, your back met with his bare chest. His chin is placed on your shoulder, his words warm:
“You really like it in surgery, don’t you?”
“I do,” you answer honestly. “Way more than I thought I would. I was afraid it’d be too challenging, too much pressure, too many new things to learn... But it’s not that hard. And I love learning.”
He laughs, a soft low sound you love just as much. “Even with an attending who’s as emotionally evolved as a toothpick?”
“I think us working together is mutually beneficial, actually. Park’s teaching me how to mend bones, I’m giving him lessons on how to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.”
Jack’s smile is tickling your neck as he pulls you back into bed, so effortlessly, like he has done it many times. You readily curl up against him, resting your palm over his chest. He tugs the blanket up to cover you, his fingers gently moving from your shoulder to your collarbone.
But then your eyes meet his, and it is a discovery you never thought you’d make: he looks self-conscious. He is the one searching for words to put his feelings into.
“You said I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” Jack recalls.
“I didn’t mean literally... I guess I was a little bit dramatic,” you avert your gaze. Okay, maybe you should’ve found a better way to tell him how you felt. Preferably without it looking like a crash-out.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” his hand cradles the side of your face, gentle and reassuring. “From the first day you came to the ER, with your humor and your curiosity and your quick thinking... To me, you were like a breath of fresh air,” he skims his thumb over your lower lip, his touch light, his words heavy with the emotions he’s been holding back for months. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was working up the courage.”
His heartbeat is hushed under your palm. Steady with certainty. It radiates from him like light, your insecurities melting away under his gaze like snow under the sun.
After a moment, you speak up: your voice is teasing. “Funny how you had just enough courage to record raunchy audios.”
“My therapist said I needed a hobby. Unfortunately, I suck at golf,” Jack leaves a kiss on your forehead. “But you were the one who gave me the idea.”
“Um, for all the great ideas I am famous for, that one definitely wasn’t mine.”
His chest vibrates with laughter. “You don’t remember it? Your third week in the ER, the nightcrawles on a night out. I walked you out to wait for your cab, and you said — and I quote — that I’ve got a very soothing voice. That I should narrate audiobooks or something.”
You cover your face with your palm, groaning. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that out loud. I had five shots of tequila. I hoped you would forget.”
“I didn’t,” Jack says and pulls your hand away. “Everything you do and say is very memorable to me,” he presses his lips to your wrist. Then puts your hand back on his chest and holds it there, his thumb brushing yours. And out of nowhere, very nonchalantly, he asks. “So, does it actually take you 40 minutes to get to work?”
“Yeah. Give or take,” you tell him vaguely.
He doesn’t buy it. “And if we’re being more specific?”
“Closer to an hour,” you admit reluctantly. “But the rent is pretty low, and most of my neighbours are nice, and I finally got my shower fixed last week so —”
“You can move in here.”
Your words die down in an instant as you stare at him, trying to discern a hint of humor, of pity, of anything to suggest he doesn’t mean it.
“You aren’t serious,” you mumble, but his unblinking gaze confirms that he is. “No, I really— I can’t.”
Jack props his head up on one hand. “Why not?”
“Because it’s your apartment. You’re living on your own, and I wouldn’t want to bother you or— or take up too much space.”
“Didn’t you say this place can fit a football team? So unless you’re gonna bring another 10 people with you...”
“No, it’s just me,” you say timidly and hesitate for a few seconds. But since you’re out of arguments, the only thing you’re left with is the truth. “I don’t want you to regret it later on.”
“I won’t regret it.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know you plenty. We worked together for half a year.”
“Yeah, but that was us in the hospital. Which isn’t exactly informative, because I can be a total mess in my everyday life. What if you come home to find my clothes lying around everywhere? What if I’ve got questionable coffee preferences or weird food habits?” you absentmindedly draw circles on his skin, stumbling over the excuses you are nervously coming up with. “And then we’ll start getting into fights because I was too tired to iron the bedsheets or I accidentally took your favorite t-shirt or ate your favorite ice cream because I got my period and acted bitchy or —”
Jack tilts your chin up, the small movement making you close your mouth. A smile pulls at his lips, soft just the rest of him — now, in this moment, with you: soft touch of his strong hands, soft grey curls, a little ruffled (totally your fault), soft gaze that is a vortex of green, amber and gold. His voice carries the same softness when he says:
“You usually take your coffee black with just a splash of soy milk. But when you’re tired, you go for these obnoxiously sugary drinks that barely have any caffeine in them,” his smile grows wider. “You do not throw things around, not when the inside of your locker is strategically organized by shelves. Your only weird food habit is thinking a protein bar can be considered a full meal. I don’t iron my bedsheets, you can wear any of my t-shirts, and I’ll make sure to stock up on ice cream. I’ve never seen you being bitchy, but you can get a little uncooperative when you’re upset or nervous. Which I can handle,” but there is no pressure behind his reasoning — instead, he adds with hope, his eyes not leaving yours, “I know enough, and I’d love to learn the rest. If you let me.”
The feeling rolls all over you, familiar and very long-awaited one: of calmness that his presence always brings you. Of just how comforting it is to be with him. Jack makes it sound too easy for you to harbour any doubts.
“Okay,” you manage quietly.
And when your hands cradle his face, he leans in first to close the distance.
You kiss him slowly, like you are trying to spell out your gratitude, your ever-growing fondness, your feelings you are still afraid to name. He holds you close like he can understand exactly what your lips are saying. You want to drag this moment out for longer; but then a yawn bubbles in your throat.
“You’re not leaving this bed until you get at least eight hours of sleep,” Jack notes, more caring than stern, his nose bumping into yours. And you can tell his eyelids are already drooping. “What time do you need to wake up?”
“M’not working tomorrow. Turned off my alarm already,” you mumble.
“Good,” he nods with his eyes closed, wrapping both arms around you — and then adds in a tender whisper, “Good girl.”
You smile into his chest, happily and drowsily, and you know you’re about to fall asleep. And just before you do, you think:
no, this definitely isn’t a one-time thing.
✧ dividers by @/strangergraphics, @/saradika-graphics, @/omi-resources, @/cafekitsune;
✧ I usually don’t like diving a fic into shorter “parts”, but it felt right in the moment, and I hope it didn’t ruin the pacing of the story? ngl I was super horny when I wrote the smut part(s), so maybe I went a liiittle overboard... also, yes, this fic was supposed to be shorter, but then I added a shit ton of softness at the end, I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF!
✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!
content.ᐟ 18+, pathetic!dex, unprotected p in v, first time, crying, praise, pet names (baby/babygirl)
dex poindexter, bullseye, who cums within 30 seconds of being inside you.
he can't shake the thought that it feels a bit too good when your hand strokes his flushed cock lightly a few times before he inches himself in, but he couldn't bring himself to tell you that he was already close. what was he supposed to say? "i feel like i might cum from looking at you, can we take a break?" he decided to save himself the embarrassment.
so when your pussy is fluttering around his pretty pink tip, he has to clench his eyes shut and bite his lip, before burying himself to the hilt quickly. he swears he's never felt anything like your velvety heat, so warm, wet, and tight— fuck. his head falls down to your bare chest and he actually pants, cursing under his breath and not daring to move.
the soft moans and breathless whispers of his name that fall from your lips when he's fully buried inside you isn't helping either. the way your nails card through his damp hair and scratch at his scalp makes his balls tighten up, he literally has to pull his head away from your grasp so he doesn't blow his load right there. poor boy feels so bad :(
"dex?" you ask in that soft raspy tone that always manages to give him a painful hard-on. even as he's distancing himself as much as he can from you without actually pulling out, you're reaching for him, small soft hands grasping at his biceps, pulling him back into your chest.
you figure he just needs a bit of encouragement, maybe he's scared of hurting you? "feels s'good baby..." you praise him breathlessly. his dick twitches violently inside your gummy walls at that, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, like he's hiding from your impossibly soft gaze.
"m'sorry babygirl, i just- jus' need a minute..." he speaks lowly, words muffled by your neck. it sounds more whimpery than he meant it to be.
you catch on quickly after that, you then notice his trembling and heavy breathing, you have to hold back a giggle, such a big brooding guy like him all gooey under your touch and words. he has a big need to please you, but it's not his fault your pussy just feels too good!
you let a small smirk grow on your face, "oh, dexie," you coo, rubbing his back. "am i that good?" you huff a small, teasing laugh, kissing the top of his head.
he whines at the sound of your voice, and just how pathetic he feels. "just- don't talk —fuck— i'm sorry-" he shakes his head, it physically hurts him to tell you to be quiet, but if you don't, he knows he'll embarrass himself :(
you feel dex's eyes blinking against your skin, and the tears falling down his cheeks. you bring your hand to grip the hair on the back of his head, pulling him from the crook of your neck. he has big, glossy eyes staring at you with so much embarrassment.
you soften impossibly at that, "dex, baby, s'okay" you coo at him, peppering reverent kisses all over his flushed face, swiping away his tears. he leans into the contact, closing his eyes and letting you kiss all over his face. "i- i don't wanna disappoint you–" he hiccups, glancing down at where the two of you are connected, and instantly regretting it.
before you can reassure him once again, you feel him buck his hips into yours, and a sudden, warm sensation. "oh– fuuuck–" he chokes out a low groan, burying his face into your neck again. he's crying harder, fingers gripping into your shoulders hard enough to bruise as he fucks into you in shallow thrusts, moaning softly.
you lay there in almost shock, still rubbing his back tenderly as he fills you up with his warm release. "did you just–" you stutter out, letting a small, suprised grin grow on your face.
he's not so amused though, shaking like a leaf and sobbing apologies into your skin. "ohgod–" "m'so sorry, baby" "fuck– i'm so stupid" he's beating himself up, making a big deal out of cumming too soon. he collapses on top of you, not wanting there to be any space between the two of you.
"dex." you stop his spiraling firmly, squeezing his bicep and getting him to look up at you. he looks humiliated, pitifully glancing away from your gaze when you begin to speak. "i don't mind, okay?" you make him nod at that, carding your finger through his damp, blonde hair. "lets go again, yeah?"
pov. pope doesn’t have regular sex with you, he’s so traumatized that he can’t. you acknowledge it and accept that’s how he’ll just be forever but when he comes to you out of nowhere and lets you fuck him, you can’t help but fuck him in the gentle ways you’ve been longing to do.
content warnings. ⸝⸝ fem reader, softdom!reader, switch!pope, praise kink, tiny bit of a size kink, tad bit of angst, no proof read, sub leaning!pope, aftercare
pope was never fully there during sex. even when his body moved right, his head was somewhere else, drowning in old blood, smurf’s voice in his ear, catherine’s face, the weight of every fucked up thing he’d done and couldn’t take back. he’d get lost mid thrust, jaw tight, eyes distant, like he was watching himself from outside his own skin.
sometimes he’d go quiet for too long, breath shaky, muscles locked up while his mind spun too fast to let him feel anything good. he fucked like a man trying to outrun something, and most nights he lost, and you were the only one who ever noticed. the only one who slowed him down instead of letting him disappear.
you’re now stretched out on smurf’s living room couch, remote in your lap, some mindless show flickering across the screen. the house is quiet for once, the sliding door scrapes open and pope steps in from the backyard, shoulders tight, that familiar restless energy rolling off him. his eyes find you immediately.
he walks over to you. “hey baby,” you say gently, voice soft like you’re approaching something skittish.
he doesn’t answer. just glances at the tv, then back to you. his jaw clenches hard, like he’s chewing on whatever storm is in his head. you can see it, the way he’s already half gone, thoughts eating him alive. “come here,” he says, low and rough.
you lift a brow and set the remote aside, starting to push yourself up, but pope’s done waiting. he moves fast, snatching you up off the couch like you weigh nothing, arms locking around you. you let out a surprised breath as he carries you down the hall toward j’s room.
“you okay?” you ask quietly, one hand resting against the side of his neck. but he doesn’t answer, just shoulders j’s door open with a shove.
j looks up from his bed, confused for half a second before he clocks pope’s face. he exchanges a quick look with you, then nods slowly and stands up without a word, slipping out past you both.
pope kicks the door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the bed. he’s breathing hard already, eyes dark. “fuck me,” he says, and you blink. “what?” you ask.
“you heard me.” his voice is rough, almost impatient, but there’s that raw edge underneath. he peels his shirt off in one quick motion, tossing it aside, revealing the tense lines of his chest and shoulders. he stands there in front of you, waiting, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting not to grab you again.
he needs this, needs you to take the wheel before his head drags him under.
you pause for a second, staring at him. your eyes flick over to the wide open window, the backyard and whoever might walk by completely visible. “you wanna close the window and lock the door?” you ask gently.
pope was already moving. he locked the door first with a quick twist, then crossed to the window and pulled the curtains shut tight, blocking out the rest of the world. when he turned back, you were already stripping. you pulled your clothes off piece by piece, letting them drop to the floor.
the cold air bit at your skin, raising goosebumps as you pushed your hair over into a lazy side part.
he came back to you fast, stepping right into your space, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his bare chest. you looked up at him, searching his face. “what’s going on with you?” you asked softly.
pope didn’t answer with words. he just leaned down and kissed you, hard and desperate, you kissed him back, brows furrowed against the intensity of it, your hands sliding up his arms. he was already shoving his jeans and boxers down, kicking them off while his mouth stayed on yours.
when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. “i’m sorry,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “no,” you said, gentle but firm. “come here. tell me what’s wrong.” you said.
you took his hand and pulled him closer, guiding him as he fell over you on the bed. his weight settled between your legs, skin warm against your cold body. he kissed you again, slower this time, almost like he was hiding in it. you let him, one hand threading through his hair while the other stroked down his back.
you broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his mouth, “can i ride you while you tell me what’s wrong?” you questioned.
pope let out a shaky breath, eyes half lidded, already nodding before the words even left him. “yeah… please,” he rasped, voice cracking just a little. his hands gripped your hips like he needed something solid to hold onto, but the look in his eyes was pure surrender. “just… don’t stop touching me.” he begged.
pope stood back up slowly, like he needed a second to steady himself. he walked over to the side of j’s little bed and climbed on, settling with his back against the wall, legs stretched out, as he waited for you, chest rising and falling too fast.
you made your way to him on your knees, crawling into his lap. the size difference hit hard by the way you looked so small tucked against his broad frame, thighs spread wide over his hips, your body fitting perfectly in the space between his legs like you were made to be there.
you reached down, wrapped your hand around him, and slowly slid down, taking him inch by inch until he was buried deep inside you.
pope groaned low, head tilting back against the wall. his big hands immediately went to your sides, rubbing slow, soothing circles over your skin like he was trying to memorize the feeling of you. “tell me,” you said softly, starting to move, rolling your hips nice and slow.
“i miss you,” he breathed, voice rough and shaky. “and i need you. all the time. can’t get my head right without you.” his fingers dug into your waist a little harder, but not rough, just desperate, like he was scared you’d disappear.
you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him close as you kept slowly bouncing on his cock. your breath hitched against his ear with every roll of your hips, soft little sounds slipping out while your legs pressed tight against his sides.
you already knew you were gonna be sore after this, the stretch of him, the burn at your thighs, the way he filled you so completely, but you didn’t care. you just kept moving, gentle and steady, letting him feel every bit of you.
you leaned in and started pressing soft little peck kisses along his cheek, then slowly down the side of his throat. his skin was warm under your lips, pulse jumping every time you kissed him. “you missed me?” you asked gently.
pope nodded, quick and almost shy, eyes half closed as he swallowed hard.
you smiled against his skin and leaned up, catching his lips in a soft, sweet peck. your vanilla lip gloss transferred onto his mouth, shiny and sweet. he didn’t wipe it away, he just let it stay there, licking his bottom lip once like he was tasting you, breathing you in. “you know i love you, right?” you whispered.
pope’s arms tightened around you instantly, pulling you flush against his chest like he needed to feel your heartbeat. his voice came out low and cracked, almost broken. “yeah… i know. i love you too.” he shot back, smooth as if it was said to make you not worry. “fuck, i love you so much it scares me sometimes.” he added, voice more desperate.
you started riding him deeper, picking up the pace just a little, rolling your hips with more purpose. his cock hit that perfect spot inside you over and over, making your breath catch.
“i love you so much honey,” you murmured against his ear, voice warm and steady. “you’re doing so good for me. just keep talking to me.” you encouraged. pope let out a shaky groan, forehead pressed to your shoulder as his hands slid down to grip your ass, helping guide your movements. his hips started pushing up to meet you, needy and uncoordinated, like he couldn’t stop himself from chasing the feeling.
“feels so good… don’t stop. please don’t stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “i need you. been thinking about you all day… just you. only you make it quiet in my head.” he admitted. he buried his face deeper into your neck, breathing you in while you kept riding him slow and deep, your bodies pressed tight together in the quiet room.
you kept moving on him, fucking yourself deeper onto his cock with slow, purposeful rolls of your hips. every time you sank down, he hit your gspot so perfectly it made your thighs tremble around him. you stayed soft the whole time, never rushing, just taking care of him.
“that’s it, baby,” you whispered, pressing more gentle kisses along his jaw and down his neck. “you’re being so good for me. so sweet letting me take care of you like this.” your lips brushed his ear as you spoke, voice low and warm. “i’ve got you. just feel me, honey. you don’t have to think about anything else right now.”
pope whimpered softly, the sound slipping out before he could stop it. his head tipped back against the wall, eyes glassy, hands gripping your waist like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. his hips tried to chase you but he kept letting you set the pace, surrendering completely.
you rocked harder onto him, taking him deeper, grinding down so his cock rubbed right against that spot inside you again and again. your breath hitched against his ear as pleasure sparked up your spine.
“fuck… you feel so good,” you murmured, kissing the shell of his ear. “my sweet boy. you’re doing so well. love how you let me ride you like this.“ you said to him. “please… don’t stop. i need you so bad.” he breathed, voice shaky and desperate. his hands slid up your back, clinging to you as his body trembled underneath.
you smiled softly and kissed him again, slow and deep, while you kept fucking yourself onto him harder, chasing that perfect angle. one hand stayed wrapped around the back of his neck, holding him close as you whispered right against his lips between kisses.
“good boy. just like that. let me make you feel better, baby. i’ve got you.” you assured him. pope moaned quietly, completely lost in you now. you could feel him getting close, his cock twitching inside you, thighs tensing under yours, breath coming out in short, desperate little pants against your neck.
you kept riding him steady and deep, grinding down so he stayed right against your g-spot while you praised him softly. “you’re so handsome, y’know that?” you murmured, brushing your lips along his cheek. “baby, say it.” you ordered.
pope’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure and embarrassment. “m’handsome.” he mumbled. “so handsome,” you repeated sweetly, kissing his cheek again, lingering there as you kept moving on him. “my pretty boy. doin’ so good for me.”
that was all it took. pope let out a broken moan, hips jerking up as he came hard inside you. you felt the warm, thick spurts of his cum flooding you, pulse after pulse, filling you up so deep and messy that it started to leak out around his cock, slick and hot, coating your thighs and dripping down onto him.
he kept cumming for what felt like forever, trembling underneath you, completely lost. even after he finished, he didn’t stop. his hands gripped your hips tighter and he kept thrusting up into you, slow and deep, pushing his cum even deeper while he panted against your skin.
“want you to cum,” he whispered, voice hoarse and needy. “please… wanna feel you cum on me. please let me make you feel good.” he begged. you smiled softly against his cheek, still rocking with him, letting him fuck his cum back into you while you held him close.
pope’s hand slid up to your throat, not squeezing hard, just resting there, warm and firm, helping guide you as you fucked yourself onto him. his hips snapping up harder to meet you, driving his cock straight into that perfect spot inside you over and over. “feel good?” he asked, voice low and rough.
your jaw dropped, a quiet moan slipping out at first before it got louder, breathier. “yes—yes!” you moaned, the sound filling the room as pleasure built fast. he gave your ass a gentle slap, not hard, just enough to make you jolt and sink down deeper on him. he fucked up into you a few more times, steady and deep, until you finally broke.
you came hard around his cock, walls pulsing and fluttering tight around him. warm, slick wetness gushed out of you, soaking his lap and mixing with his cum already inside you. your whole body shook as the orgasm rolled through you, thighs trembling, nails digging lightly into his shoulders while you clenched and dripped all over him.
you both slowly came to a stop, breathing heavy. you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his neck, trying to catch your breath. pope’s arms wrapped around you tight, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “you okay?” he asked quietly, voice still a little hoarse.
“mhm,” you hummed, holding onto him tighter. “i need a bath.” you mentioned, pope stayed quiet for a second, just holding you close like he didn’t want to let go. then he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “yeah… i’ll take one with you,” he murmured, voice soft but certain.
you stayed curled against him for a minute, catching your breath. pope eventually reached for his shirt on the floor and gently pulled it over your head, covering you up. he didn’t bother with anything for himself, just scooped you up in his arms, completely naked, and carried you out of j’s room like it was the most normal thing in the world.
as soon as you stepped into the hallway, j and craig were right there. you looked over pope’s shoulder and burst out laughing. craig’s eyes went wide before he started cracking up. “jesus christ—” craig yelled, half laughing, half shocked. j immediately covered his face with both hands, groaning.
“put some shorts on dude!” craig called after you two, bursting into louder laughter. pope didn’t even flinch. he just kept walking, holding you tighter against his chest, completely unbothered as he carried you straight into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind him.
he set you down gently on the edge of the tub, turned the water on warm, and poured in some soap until the tub started filling with bubbles. once it was ready, he helped you out of his shirt and lowered you into the water first, then climbed in behind you.
he pulled your back against his chest, arms wrapping around you under the warm water, holding you close as the heat soaked into both of you.
“you feel okay?” he asked quietly, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck. his hands rubbed gentle circles over your stomach and thighs under the water, soothing the soreness already starting to settle in. you hummed, relaxing completely against him. “yeah… really good.” you replied.
he stayed quiet for a bit, just holding you, occasionally kissing wherever he could reach, your temple, your hair, the curve of your shoulder. the water lapped softly around you both while he took care of you, slow and patient, like nothing else in the world mattered right now. “stay with me a little longer,” he whispered against your skin, voice low and soft. “don’t gotta move yet.”
Summary: Some more blurbs about being in an age-gap relationship with our silver fox, since you all liked the last one so much. :))
Warnings: Age-gap relationship, some mature content, use of 'daddy' in a sexual way.
A/n: Yayy, I love that you guys are loving this little series bc I love writing those small imagines.
The likes, reposts and comments are really appreciated!!! Keep them coming :))
I love ya <3
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“Sweetheart.. is this really necessary?" Jack sighs, hands resting on your hips as you’re straddling his lap.
“Yes,” you push the pink, fluffy headband a bit further into his curls before looking into his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Jack looks down at the bowl you’re holding, a green homemade facemask sitting in it and waiting to be spread all over his face. When you mentioned self-care night to him, he thought he wouldn’t be involved.
“My skin is already old and damaged,” Jack tells you, looking up into your eyes. “No need to start fixing it now.”
“Awh.. c’mon,” you pout. “Don’t you wanna look pretty like me?” you question, face already smeared with the green substance.
“No offense,” he says. “But this isn’t your best look.”
Your lips part in a shocked expression. “Rude.”
“M’sorry,” Jack chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss against your neck.
“Offense is taken,” you say before pushing him back.
It doesn’t take long before the green is now also coating his face. You focus on spreading it open with your make-up brush, careful to not get any in his eyes. Jack might act like he’s not enjoying it but he loves whenever you’re spending this much time on him.
“Look at you,” a smile grows on your lips as you finish painting his face. “Pretty princess.” you tease.
“Alright,” Jack scoffs, pinching your hip. “That’s enough of that.”
You chuckle and lean in to press a kiss against his lips, getting some of the mask in your mouth as you do. “Mhmm.. avocado.”
“Is the mask edible?" Jack furrows his brows as he watches you lick your lips.
“Yeah,” you nod your head. “It’s based on avocado and has some other natural ingredients in it, all edible.”
“Oh sweetheart,” Jack gives you a look. “You should’ve put this on my dick instead, so you could lick it-”
“Jack!” you gasp and nudge his chest before falling into laughter together with him.
⊱✫⊰
“I need to work out more,” Jack grumbles as he’s staring at himself in the mirror, chest bare and only wearing the pants of his scrubs.
“More?” you furrow your brows, sitting up and feeling the sheet move down your body. “You’re already so buff, baby.”
“M’getting fat,” he tells you, turning to look at you and getting distracted for a moment by your breasts being exposed. “My stomach is getting bigger.” he complains before looking at himself in the mirror again.
You let your eyes move over his sculpted back and big arms before they rest on his stomach. He does have a little tummy but you don’t mind that at all, matter of fact.. you prefer it actually.
“I like your tummy,” you say, crawling closer to the edge of the bed.
“You do?” Jack questions, looking at you again.
“I do,” you give him a smile. “I love it, actually.”
Jack feels some of his insecurity fade away, mirroring your smile on his lips as he looks at you. He takes a step closer and cups your cheek with his hand, brushing his thumb against your skin in an affectionate way.
“You sure, sweetheart?” he asks softly. “M’already older.. need to make sure that I at least keep a good physique for you.”
“I love the way you look,” you tell him, looking up in his eyes. “I like your broad shoulders, your huge biceps,” you move a hand up to roam over the body parts you’re talking about. “And I especially like your tummy,” you tell him as your hand rests there, finger running down his happy trail.
“Yeah?” Jack looks into your eyes, already turned on just by your feather light touches.
“You wanna know why?” you give him a look.
He gives you a nod, eyes having turned a shade darker as he’s thinking about you touching him elsewhere.
“I like feeling it slap against my lower back when you take me from behind.” you tell him, looking up at him through your lashes.
A groan leaves Jack as he hears your words, feeling himself getting harder with the second. He takes a moment to look over at the alarm clock on his nightstand, realising he’s got some time left before he needs to be at work.
“That’s it,” he looks back into your eyes. “We’re going again.” Jack says before pouncing onto you which leaves you in a fit of giggles.
⊱✫⊰
It’s late as you’re strolling down the street with your boyfriend, hand in hand, bellies full with the dinner you just finished in one of Jack’s favorite restaurants.
“We’re getting looks.” he tells you, making you turn your head into the direction he’s staring in.
A group of younger guys is huddled together near a bench, clearly staring at the two of you and making comments to one another.
It’s not a shock to you, whenever you’re out with Jack you usually attract some stares. The two of you are in an age gap relationship and apparently, not everybody can understand how that is possible. The amount of people who have called you out for doing it for the money, without them knowing anything about Jack’s financial status, is insane.
It doesn’t face you, you’ve never really cared what others thought of you. Which comes in handy as Jack has it a lot harder with that. He hates whenever you two get stares or comments in public because of your age difference, mostly because he doesn’t want you to feel ashamed to be with him.
“Who cares,” you shrug before leaning in a bit closer to him, hand sneaking around his bicep to hold onto him.
“I know.. it shouldn’t get to me this much.” he sighs out. “Can’t help it.”
“It really shouldn’t.” you tell Jack. “Also, have you seen them?” you look into his eyes. “You’re like ten times more man than they are, I get why they’re jealous.”
Jack chuckles softly at that, pride beaming in his chest as you talk about him like that. He leans in and presses a kiss against the top of your head.
“They probably are more jealous of not being able to have you on their arm,” he mutters into your hairline.
“Oh, definitely.” you nod as you keep walking besides him. “They can only wish.”
Your words cause Jack to laugh out once more, amused with your attitude but overall just really happy.
“I love you.” Jack smiles, wrinkles forming at the sides of his eyes. “So much, sweetheart.”
“I love you too.” you smile at him before he leans in to peck your lips.
⊱✫⊰
While getting yourself ready to go out and eat, you’re listening to some of your music.
You’re singing along to Cocky Af by Megan Thee Stallion, getting really into it as you’re looking at yourself in the mirror.
“Sweetheart?” Jack walks into your shared room and when he sees you do a little dance while singing along to the music, he can only hold back a laugh.
An amused look covers his face as he crosses his arms over his chest, standing behind you and looking at your face through the mirror.
“You’re something else, y’know that?” he comments, a smirk tugging on his lips.
“Pardon me for feeling myself,” you shoot him a look. “But I look good as fuck right now and Megan is telling me it’s okay to be cocky.”
“Who’s Megan?” Jack furrows his brows, taking a step closer.
“Megan Thee Stallion,”
“Sounds like a stripper name,” he tells you.
“I-” you turn around in your chair to face him. “Stripper name?” you give him a look. “You know lots of strippers?”
“What?” He gives you a confused look.
“Seems like you know lots of strippers, since you so easily can tell me what a stripper's name sounds like.”
You know you’re being difficult, but you love getting on his nerves from time to time, it keeps him on his toes.
“Sweetheart-”
“No, it’s fine.” you stand up from the chair you were sitting on and place your hands on your hips. “M’not going out to dinner with you anymore.”
“Really?” he arches a brow.
“Yup,” you give him a glare. “Here’s an idea tho.. you can go to the nearest strip club and invite a girl to have dinner with you. That way you don’t lose your reservation.”
Another reason why you like to be dramatic and push his buttons, Jack loves putting you in your place.
“You’re acting crazy,” Jack tells you while moving closer. “Stop it.”
“Excuse you,” you watch as he moves closer. “Call me crazy, I’ll show you crazy.”
Jack rolls his eyes at your words. “Don’t start with me.”
“Or what?” you arch a brow.
“I’ll show you.” Jack is quick to pick you up, easily laying you over his shoulder as a shriek escapes you.
He moves over towards the bed and playfully drops you down onto the mattress. You lay back and watch as he takes his phone out of his back pocket.
“What are you doing?” you furrow your brows.
“M’calling the restaurant to cancel our reservation.” Jack answers you like it’s no big deal.
“What?” you move to sit yourself up some more. “What about dinner?”
“Oh,” Jack stops from typing in the number of the restaurant, eyeing you. “No worries, I have my dinner right here.”
You feel how his words and the tone in his voice send a shiver up your spine, you can only watch him as his eyes stare deeply into yours.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” Jack says, taking a step closer so he’d hover over you some more. “M’gonna eat you out, make you come over and over until you can’t take it anymore.”
You swallow harshly as his words go straight to your core, making that ache for him between your thighs grow only bigger.
“Any complaints?” Jack arches a brow.
“No,” you answer him quickly, as a feeling of anticipation and excitement has settled in your gut after hearing his words.
“Thought so,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “If you’re a good girl for me, I’ll let you order all the food you want when I’m done with you.” Jack leans in closer and holds onto your chin.
You can only stare up into his eyes, both extremely turned on as smitten by how he still manages to be sweet even when being dominant with you.
“Sounds good?” he asks, watching that love sick look take over your eyes. It makes a warm feeling spread in his chest.
“Yeah,” you smile softly.
Jack can only smile back before giving you a kiss, cupping your cheek for a moment and not pulling away completely so he could peck your lips a few times more.
“Now give me some time to call and cancel the reservation,” he tells you. “I want you to put on that red set,” he refers to the new lingerie he bought you last week. “Be ready on the bed when I get back in here. Okay?”
“Yes, daddy.” you answer him with a soft smirk which makes him growl and give you another kiss before pulling back.
“Brat.” he grumbles before pressing the call button and placing his phone at his ear while walking out of the room.
────────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────────
A/n: Requests are always welcome!!!
If you have any ideas especially for in this series, plss send them my way or comment them.
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
stormborns
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
gummygunk
gracieabrams
origamiaround
discoholicmusic
